11 





Copyright^ . 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT: 



AROUND THE 
EMERALD ISLE 



A RECORD OF 
IMPRESSIONS 

By 

William Charles O'Donnell, Jr., 


Ph.D. 



BOSTON: THE ROXBURGH 
PUBLISHING COMPANY (INC.) 



^ 



#0' 



Copyrighted 1910 
By William Charles O'Donnell, Jr., Ph.D. 



All rights reserved 



CI.A27 1 i;, " 



DEDICATION. 

To the Best Beloved and to the Fortunate 
Little Man who has inherited many of her 
virtues. 



A HINT. 

Impressions do not always coincide with ex- 
pert opinions and studied conclusions. They 
may be considered as treasures of the heart 
rather than as triumphs of the mind. The lit- 
tle journey of which this book is a partial 
record was undertaken as a vacation experi- 
ence, and in the hope that some pleasurable 
and more or less profitable impressions might 
be received. The result is herein described. 
Twenty-three of the thirty-two counties of Ire- 
land were visited, characteristic features of 
different sections observed, and important his- 
torical episodes recalled. The story of Ireland 
is so pathetic, the position of Ireland so 
unique, and the Emerald Isle is so much in the 
thought of the world today that even the un- 
scientific comments of an American traveller 
with a liberal percentage of Irish blood in his 
veins may be of interest to the reader — should 
there be one. 

The Author. 
March 25, 1910. 



CONTENTS. 

Page. 

I. Why? 9 

II. Evening at Queenstown 16 

III. Youghal, and the Blackwater 21 

IV. The City of the Shandon Bells. . . .30 

V. Blarney's Secret 38 

VI. A Bit of Bog 41 

VII. Glorious Glengariff 44 

VIII. The Song at Twlight 50 

IX. Limerick 61 

X. A Royal River 67 

XI. Clara and Athlone 81 

XII. On to Sligo 87 

XIII. Up in Ulster 92 

XIV. A Look at Londonderry 95 

XV. Portrush and the Giant's Cause- 
way 99 

XVI. Antrim, the Stronghold of Prot- 
estantism 107 

XVn. The Ford at the Sand-Bank 112 

XVIII. The Holy Hills of Armagh 118 

XIX. Where Winds the Boyne 127 

XX. Doing Dublin 140 

XXI. Completing the Circle 163 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE 
A Record of Impressions 



I. WHY? 

"For we will make for Ireland presently." 
Richard II., Act I, Scene IV. 

Why make for Ireland? 

King Richard made for Ireland to Ireland's 
sorrow. After the fashion of kings, he went 
for plunder, "to farm his royal realm.' ' 
Purpled robbers might thus replenish their 
coffers, but they could not rob the hills of 
their strength, the lakes of their laughter, the 
rivers of their peace, the bays of their tides, 
nor the glens of their fairy shades. 

More than five hundred years have passed 
since Richard the Second landed at Waterford, 
and Erin is still flashing her crystal glory in 
the Atlantic wave. The heavens bend lovingly 
over the "Noble Isle," the laurel and the holly 
lift their shimmering enamel to the golden 
light. The fushia nods from the hedge-row, 



10 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

the rhododendron and the arbutus hold tryst 
in quiet retreats, the ivy mantles ancient 
walls and entwines the aged oaks, and the 
purple heather crowns historic hills. Such is 
Ireland, an Emerald Isle in very fact, where 
nature's thousand tongues conspire in holy 
psalmody. Erin is like a weeping maiden 
whose tears have not despoiled her beauty, 
radiant even in distress. 

The ''make for Ireland" habit did not begin 
with Plantaganet kings. By no means. Far, 
far back, before David was king in Israel or 
Samuel had founded the School of the Proph- 
ets, or possibly before Moses from Nebo 
"viewed the landscape o'er," the Sons of 
Milid sought here a home. To them it was 
the Isle of Destiny, Innisfail, the land of 
promise. The poet Moore portrays the ap- 
proach in musical lines: — 

"And lo where afar o'er ocean shines 
A sparkle of radiant green, 
As though in that deep lay emerald mines 
Whose light through the wave was seen; 
1 'Tis Innisfail— 'tis Innisfail!' 
Rings o'er the echoing sea; 
While bending to heav'n the warriors hail 
The home of the brave and free." 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 11 

Landing in Kenmare Bay they conquered 
the tribes opposing them, built forts and towns, 
inaugurated a military and judicial system, 
advanced somewhat in arts and literature, 
established a civilization unapproaehed in 
Western Europe and became the progenitors 
of a wonderful race. What soldiers, what 
scholars, what orators, what poets, what musi- 
cians, what tradesmen, what missionaries those 
Irishmen have been ! 

Other invasions antedate that of the Mile- 
sians. Eire was a princess of one of these more 
ancient tribes, and by some inscrutable law of 
persistence, her name continues to be the name 
of the country. (E)ireland it will be through 
the centuries to come. 

" Spring and Autumn in Ireland" is the 
title of a charming little volume written by 
Alfred Austin, wherein he tells us that he vis- 
ited the country "in search of natural beauty 
and human kindness. Nowhere have I found 
more of either. ' ' In yielding to the lure of the 
land of Ossian, the Laureate found refreshment 
for his spirit in a paradise of enchantment, 
and chronicled his impressions with a free yet 
sympathetic pen. So it has always been, for 
to the poet's eye Ireland is itself a poem. 



12 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Ireland, too, has poured its life into the life of 
the world as no other country has ever done. 

John Wesley was vehemently criticized in 
London for spending so much time in Ireland. 
"Have patience," said he, "have patience, Ire- 
land will repay you." He crossed the channel 
annually for forty years, delivered the new 
evangel, conducted his conferences, saw 
Methodism firmly rooted and never doubted 
the full fruition of his hopes. Wesley evi- 
dently understood Ireland better than any 
Englishman of the century. The last his 
Dublin friends saw of him was when a few 
months before his death he stood upon the 
ship 's deck and lifted holy hands above them in 
benediction and farewell. It was a most solemn 
and pathetic scene. The aged leader with 
snow-white hair and bowed form was looking 
upon the tear-streaked faces of those who 
were to him what the converts at Thessa- 
lonica were to Paul, his "glory and his joy." 
He was to see them no more upon the earth. 
His work in Ireland was done. He was leav- 
ing them in tears, yet in triumph. Ireland 
had already repaid Methodism, and had given 
Adam Clark to the world, and Phillip Embury 
and Robert Strawbridge to America, here to 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 13 

lay firm and true the foundations upon which 
American Methodists have been building from 
that day to this. The pioneer became the 
preacher. To such men our country owes a debt 
of lasting gratitude. Their influence is every- 
where evident. To the operation of such 
subtle forces can be attributed the ever grow- 
ing vigor of the Republic, so that today we 
can applaud with consistent patriotism the 
sentiment expressed by the lamented Fred- 
erick Lawrence Knowles : — 

"Why linger o'er decrepit shrine 
In Hellas or in Palestine? 
America as Greece is grand, 
America is Holy Land." 

To make for Ireland, then, is to follow in 
the train of a noble army of potentates, 
propagandists and poets. A humble mortal 
may be allowed to fondle whatever sense of 
-satisfaction may arise from that considera- 
tion; he is not compelled to depend upon it, 
however, for his enjoyment and edification. 

Ireland's greatest length from point to 
point is but a little more than three hundred 
miles, its breadth about one hundred and 
eighty miles. Within its area of less than 
thirty-three thousand square miles are curiosi- 



14 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

ties and charms more manifold than any equal 
area in the world can furnish. There, on 
"John Bull's Other Island" are to be found 
attractions incomparable, and problems in- 
numerable — topographical and scenic, archaeo- 
logical, sociological, industrial, political, reli- 
gious. In that little country, smaller than the 
State of Maine, are to be found the largest 
lake, the greatest river, and, with one excep- 
tion, the loftiest mountain in the Kingdom. 
Irish products are famed the world over — the 
marble of Connemarra, the china of Belleek, 
the crochet of Cork, the lace and bacon of 
Limerick, the linen of Belfast, the poplins and 
tweeds of Dublin and other centers. There 
are the ship yards, the tobacco factories, and 
the breweries among the largest in all the 
world. There are great cathedrals^ great 
universities, great libraries, and great mu- 
seums. There are great mansions in de- 
lightful demesnes. There are picturesque ruins 
of castles, monasteries, abbeys, towers and walls, 
In old cairns, cromlechs, mounds and monu- 
ments are to be recognized traces of a pre- 
historic age, ever exciting new wonder as 
they are the more thoroughly explored. The 
whole Island is fringed with a panoramic 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 15 

succession of rugged headlands and rounded 
hills, bewitching bays, estuaries and glens, 
while fertile fields offer up their incense of 
rich increase to the Most High. 

More interesting than Ireland is the Irish- 
man himself. He is not to be imagined a de- 
spairing pauper, nor, on the other hand, a 
flippant purveyor of haphazard humor. He 
may be poor, and sometimes witty, but at 
heart the real Irishman is a philosopher and 
a patriot. Humor is the soul of his philosophy, 
hope the life of his patriotism. In some sec- 
tions, filth, wretchedness, disease and poverty 
are still alarmingly in evidence, but the pig- 
in-the-parlor, the shillalah, and the inverted 
pipe are not conspicuous features in modern 
life. Old types remain, but a new order pre- 
vails. There is much to learn and to unlearn, 
much to see and to enjoy, to admire and to 
deplore in a tour around the Emerald Isle. 



H. EVENING AT QUEENSTOWN. 

The joy of getting aboard is infinitesimal 
compared to the joy of getting ashore. 

The delightful day had come. As if by 
some trick of enchantment the spectral out- 
lines of land emerged from the mist on the 
distant horizon. The approach to Daunt 's 
Bock was like the gliding of a phantom ship 
through an opalescent sea, a poem in color and 
motion. Around and above us circled the sea 
gulls with their snowy breasts, and gray wings 
tipped with velvety black, so numerous that 
their shadows chased each other across the 
ship's deck. The water, a shimmering green, 
rolled in billowy foam from the cutting prow, 
and, shading off in the distance to a trans- 
parent purple, seemed to merge into the filmy 
haze that hung on Old Erin's rugged shore. 
Tennysonian Sea Fairies waved their harps 
and sung: — 

"And the rainbow lives in the curve of the 
sand; 
Hither, come hither, and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be:" 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 17 

Cork Harbor was entered in style on the 
Company's tender. The channel is grimly 
guarded by forts Carlisle and Camden. The 
fairies had promised me a sweet welcome, and 
I did not fancy those frowning old sentinels 
with the furies of a thousand thunders lurk- 
ing beneath their shaggy brows. I was for 
peace. Bold battlements seemed incongruous 
amid the prevailing serenity of that beautiful 
summer evening. Possibly their sullenness 
was but fortressed dignity, for they are the 
protectors of what many believe to be the 
"most beautiful harbor in the world." That 
primacy may be contested by a few score 
other harbors likewise renowned, but no in- 
vidious comparisons need be drawn here. No 
two stars are alike in size and color, yet who 
can determine which star is the most glorious 
through the illimitable spaces of God? When 
loveliness entrances the vision, for the time 
being that loveliness is supreme. There were 
the hospitable shores, the receding hills, the 
swinging waters, the gem-like islands, the 
bounding boats and stately ships, and yonder 
on Great Island, built into the hillside, its 
streets rising in tiers and in the center its rich 
Gothic Cathedral, one hundred and fifty feet 



18 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

above the shore line, was the crescent city, 
Queenstown. 

In my ignorance I had expected to find at 
Queenstown something of the bang and bustle, 
the confusion and the grime of a modern sea- 
port metropolis. Instead I found an almost 
ideal watering place, equable and sedative in 
climate, picturesque in location, graceful in 
pose, restful in spirit, healthful, contented, 
clean, somewhat quaint, and quite diminutive, 
with a population hardly numbering ten 
thousand. 

On the third day of August 1849, the young 
and beloved Victoria first set foot on Irish ter- 
ritory, landing on the Quay amid the crash- 
ing music of military bands and the joyous 
booming of guns. Very fittingly the name of 
the city was thereupon changed from Cove to 
Queenstown. No big guns thundered to the 
world the news of my arrival, the importance 
of the event not being fully recognized in of- 
ficial circles and not having made the proper 
impression upon the public mind, — so I took 
my place all unheralded and insignificant in 
the motley throng that paraded the prom- 
enade. It was an interesting spectacle 
a medley of merchants, peddlers, boatmen, 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 19 

fishermen, soldiers, sailors, sportsmen, loungers 
and tourists from all parts of the world. 

Later I wended my way up to the Cathedral 
named in honor of St. Colman. I have seen 
more magnificent cathedrals, but none, I think, 
more exquisitely harmonizing with and yet 
glorifying its environment. Its position com- 
mands a sweeping view of the city and harbor. 
The shades of night were gathering rapidly 
and lights were glimmering from shore and 
ship even as the heavens were sown with stars. 
The Admiral from his official residence was 
flashing signals to his flagship below. Yonder 
stretched the expanse of the great harbor in 
which there is plenty of room for the entire 
navy of Great Britain. Before me lay the tide- 
kissed islands, and the sinuous river bearing 
love tokens from the sea to the distant cities. 
The gauzy clouds seemed to be brooding in 
holy meditation above the silent waters. Even- 
ing's subtle charm enthralls the imagination 
and with tender touch weaves over the 
troubled heart of man the silver gossamer of 
peace. Mrs. Embury wrote wisely: — 

"Go forth at eventide; 
Commune with thine own bosom, and be still ; 
Check the wild impulses of wayward will, 
And learn the nothingness of human pride.' ' 



20 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Even while I stood and gazed, absorbed in 
the fascinations of the wondrous scene, the 
red rim of the moon appeared on the horizon 
and soon the full orb emerged with the stately 
steppings of a queen approaching her zenith 
throne. The soft light transmuted all that it 
touched and I saw a vision wrought in ivory, 
silver and gold, a section in miniature, it 
seemed, of that enduring country where there 
is no need of sun or moon and where the 
waters like a crystal sea flow by the throne of 
God forever and forever. Such is memory's 
picture of Ireland's Queen City. 



III. YOUGHAL, AND THE BLACKWATEB. 

Consider the jaunting car. In ratio of jolts 
to distance it is about midway between the 
trolley and the camel. It is a rattling two 
wheeler like the caleche of Quebec, with the 
difference that the car will not allow one to 
face the music or whatever might lie in the 
line of motion. Going forward sidewise, and 
back to back with the other fellow, is hardly 
in accord with the American plan of progress. 
The "jarvey," as the driver is called, is sup- 
posed to be a laughing, loquacious, learned 
lad, (alliteration unavoidable) dispensing a 
perennial mixture of humor and information 
for the delectation and illumination of be- 
nighted pilgrims. He is. He does. That is 
if you happen to fall in with that particular 
jarvey. Some members of the profession to 
whom I have paid my shillings hardly meas- 
ure up to the reputation. 

My acquaintanceship with the jaunting car 
began at Youghal, an ancient coast town 
about twenty-six miles from Cork. My com- 
panion was a young architect from Cork off 
for a holiday, and together we bargained with 



22 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

the driver at the station to take us to the fam- 
ous old Collegiate Church of St. Mary's. Like 
the fabled steeds of Eumelas, swift as birds, 
that Irish critter, though no classical beast, 
seemed to have wings. Away we flew along 
the Strand, past the lodging houses and pretty 
homes that face the chafing sea, past the light- 
house, snow-white, one of the thirty odd that 
stud Ireland's ragged coast, on through the 
main street a mile long, then through a series 
of narrower streets and up the hill to the an- 
cient churchyard gate. I alighted somewhat 
shaken but in herioc mood. A dash across the 
Madison Square Garden arena on a broncho of 
the Colonel Cody bucking type could hardly be 
more exciting, and I felt that I deserved the 
applause of the audience for having mastered 
the jouncing machine in its wildest plunges. 
My fingers ached, the logical effect of the 
desperate grip I had maintained on the back 
of the seat. Sore in muscle and stiff in joint 
it was some minutes before I could walk 
naturally. Of course all this was absolutely 
unnecessary and may seem a trifle exagger- 
ated, but the sensations of a new experience 
are usually recalled with some animation. 
St. Mary's at Youghal enfolds the history 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 23 

of many centuries. It preserves the names of 
the honored of long generations. The makers 
of history are surpassingly more impressive 
than places and events. The place and the 
event proclaim the measure of the man. So 
Grant is taller than Vicksburg, Wellington 
broader than Waterloo, Napoleon outmeas- 
ured Austerlitz, and Michael Angelo is ever 
grander than St. Peter's. 

They speak at Youghal of Richard Bennett, 
who built the church on the site of an older 
one in the 13th century; of Gerald, Earl of 
Desmond, whose soldiers desecrated it in the 
16th century; of the Earl of Cork, who re- 
stored it in the 17th century, not forgetting to 
honor himself with a wonderful monument 
adorned with effigies of his wives and his nu- 
merous progeny. This was the Great Earl, I 
suppose, whose fourteenth child was Robert 
Boyle, the renowned scientist, the sturdy de- 
fender of the Faith, and the founder ol Boyle's 
Lectures. Oliver Cromwell, as pious a mur- 
derer as ever let human blood, once stood by 
an open grave in the chapel and preached to 
his men the consolations of the Gospel of the 
Prince of Peace. Yes, the history makers 
are impressive. 



24 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Just behind the church runs the old city 
wall and just beyond the wall is Maple Grove, 
where Sir Walter Raleigh lived and smoked, 
and entertained distinguished guests, and 
where he planted Ireland's first potato. Sir 
Potato's descendants now monopolize 590,000 
acres of Irish soil. The versatile Sir Walter 
came to a sad end, but surely his works do fol- 
low him. If tobacco growing had not been 
prohibited in Ireland it would undoubtedly 
have assumed large proportions. The Ameri- 
can Colonies reaped the benefit of that em- 
bargo, raised tobacco, grew prosperous and 
became independent. Ireland remained sub- 
servient and poor. Yet more than one-half 
the soldiers under Washington were Irishmen ! 
Hence the occasion for Lord Mountjoy's fam- 
ous declaration to the British Parliament, 
"You lost America by the Irish." Here 
is one of the fine ironies of history, — one 
of those marvelous might-have-beens that re- 
verse the verdict of time. Fancy the noble 
Raleigh — ruffles, doublet, hose, buckles, pipe 
and all — under the yews of Maple Grove; 
Edmund Spenser at work on the "Faerie 
Queen," near by, further enhances the charm 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 25 

of the tableau. It was even so in the opulent 
age of Elizabeth. 

Youghal occupies a position of picturesque 
interest and advantage upon the slope of a 
hill, around which a beautiful river swings 
into the sea. The Blackwater is known as 
"The Khine of Ireland." To Cappoquin is 
a ride of about eighteen miles between sylvan 
shores and embowered hills, where Ireland's 
green is greenest and where ivy-grown castle 
walls and ruined abbeys throw their distorted 
shadows upon the passing stream. The heav- 
ens were black above us on that July after- 
noon when we steamed up the river and the 
rain fell heavily at intervals, somewhat to our 
discomfort. The wild goose and the slender 
heron, feeding in the rushes, started up in 
alarm at the approach of the boat and flew to 
more sheltered haunts. Here and there among 
the hills I could see little huts, whitewashed 
and thatched, where peasants dwell and 
dream of a nationality, the meaning of which 
they can little comprehend. I could not but 
admire the castles and summer homes of the 
more fortunate, for Ireland the land of squalor 
is also the land of splendor. While poor ten- 
ants huddle in their hovels, great lords and 



26 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

wealthy merchants luxuriate in their palaces. 
There are a number of elegant residences 
along the Blackwater. It is a region of health- 
ful charm. Rivers are life bringers. God was 
very good to Ireland when He gashed the hills 
and made a channel for the coursing flood of 
that beautiful stream. 

Little Cappoquin nestles among the trees on 
an emerald slope at the bend of the river from 
a westerly to a southerly course. Like Zion, 
it is beautiful for situation, and if not the joy 
of the whole earth is at least a joy to those who 
are privileged to behold its quaint charms. 
The climax of the day was the jaunting car 
ride through the long single street of the town 
and out over the hills to the Trappist Monas- 
tery at Mount Melleray, about five miles dis- 
tant from Cappoquin. There was some stir- 
ring of the deeps of sentiment by what I saw 
and learned at Melleray. There was a subtle 
something about the place and its traditions 
that quickened the imagination and penetrated 
the emotions. I had heard a pretty story 
en route to the effect that the monks had 
leased the vast tract of land, nearly six hun- 
dred acres in extent, for a period of time that 
was not to terminate until tomorrow. Daniel 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 27 

O'Connell was credited with having drawn the 
deed. It seemed legally dubious but it was a 
good story. I thought I saw a splendid moral 
in it. I tucked it away in an attic brain cell 
for use at some opportune occasion. My in- 
formant was no less distinguished a gentleman 
than the jarvey. He had tons, or I should say 
miles of knowledge to impart. He knew 
everything and everybody in the County. 1 
knew nothing and nobody, therefore he was 
invaluable. I sat at his back and learned of 
him, literally and laterally. The grades made 
no more difference to us than they would if 
we had been in an air ship. With this delight- 
ful unconcern as to the ups and downs of life 
we sped on, my education keeping the pace. 

The Trappists are among the most austere 
of the Roman Catholic orders. They were es- 
tablished in France in the 12th Century, af- 
terwards fell away from the rigors imposed by 
the founders and were reformed by Ranee in 
the 17th Century. They now have monasteries 
in several European countries and in Amer- 
ica. Mount Melleray, I believe, is one of the 
largest. Sir Richard Keane bestowed the 
land in a district then desolate and barren. 
Today it is ambrosial. The hills " stand 



28 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

dressed in living green, ' ' the fields and gardens 
render rich reward for the labor bestowed 
upon them. The secret of the transforma- 
tion is the open secret of toil. The Brothers 
are workers. They arise at 2 a. m. and go to 
bed at 8 p. m. They eat two meals a day. 
They are vegetarians, and water is their only 
drink. They pray a great deal, they talk only 
when necessary. They read only religious 
books — no newspapers, no magazines, no 
novels. Curious. They sleep in little cubicles, 
on hard mattresses, and the "dying bed" con- 
sists of a few wisps of straw. This is unworld- 
liness — self abnegation to the verge of self 
slaughter. Yet how much better the state of 
the monk lost to the world, than that of the 
worldling lost to God ! 

We were met at the door of the quadrangu- 
lar building by a Brother in brown. The 
Fathers wear white. He escorted us most af- 
fably, showing the chapel, refectories, dormi- 
tories, library, etc., with evident pleasure. He 
had been in the monastery twenty-three years. 
He told us of a Brother who had a record of 
more than sixty years. Think of three score 
years without a newspaper! I made bold af- 
ter a while to ask our guide about that tomor- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 29 

row story. He smiled a real worldly smile. 
That is, a smile of contempt imperfectly con- 
cealed, a smile of indulgent forbearance cal- 
culated to make the recipient feel very small 
indeed. No, there was no truth in the report 
whatsoever; it was the climax of credulity to 
put faith in such a yarn; only the most ig- 
norant would believe it; to repeat it was only 
to advertise one's folly. His smile said all 
that and more. It was true that O'Connell 
had spent some days in retirement at the mon- 
astery and had examined some of the legal 
papers. That was all. 



IV. THE CITY OF THE SHANDON BELLS. 

Life's antitheses illustrate life's meaning. 
We turn from isolated Melleray to crowded 
Cork — from monastery to metropolis. What 
is a city? A network of avenues, a surging of 
masses, a babel of voices, a tumult of traffic, a 
tyranny of trade, a commingling of classes and 
nations. Busy shops and spacious stores, fac- 
tories, warehouses, palatial residences and 
lowly homes, municipal buildings, colleges, 
hospitals, libraries, museums, monuments, 
parks, promenades, bridges, depots, quays, 
churches, cathedrals, domes, towers, steeples, 
boulevards, slums, rattling wheels, groaning 
engines, smoking chimneys, odors rare and 
odors common — such is a city, a medley of 
miracles and a miracle of medleys. And such 
is Cork, its history brimming with tragedy and 
romance, its location fortunate, its surround- 
ings picturesque, its manufactories famous, its 
trade nourishing. Corcaig, meaning marsh, 
was the name originally, but, lo, a marsh trans- 
formed into a municipality. 

Good St. Fin Barre established a monastery 
in the seventh century around which a town 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 31 

slowly developed, a propitious beginning for 
the illustrious city. The process of these thir- 
teen centuries, however, brought calamities in 
multitudes. Danes, Normans, Algerian pirates, 
Ironsides, and Irish rebels in their turn be- 
sieged and possessed the place. If the shed- 
ding of blood and brilliant contending can 
consecrate the scene of its enactment, Cork is 
holy ground. The story of the bloody past 
seemed hardly credible as I paused upon St. 
Patrick's Bridge and looked upon the busy 
waters of the river Lee, and then along St. 
Patrick's Street with its moving throngs and 
elegant stores. Theue, too, stands Foley's 
eloquent statue of Father Mathew erected in 
1864 to honor the memory of the courageous 
" Apostle of Temperance." To be informed 
that Ireland has more drinking places in pro- 
portion to wealth and population than any 
other country in the world — and I can readily 
believe it, for, while not on the hunt, I saw a 
few thousand of them myself — to be so in- 
formed, I say, is to devoutly wish for some 
gladiatorial apostle to strike the drink demon 
to his death. No one can doubt that Ireland's 
"cup of woe" is due in large measure to the 
Irishman's glass of whiskey. 



32 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Far pleasanter were the thoughts that arose 
as, looking back upon the other side of the 
river I saw silhouetted against the crimsoned 
sky the curious old spire of Shandon Church 
where still chime the bells popularized by 
Francis Sylvester 'Mahoney, better known as 
"Father Prout." The poet was born at Cork 
in 1804. The bells are not remarkably musical, 
but they captivated the sensitive soul of the 
child, and for him there could be no sweeter 
sound on earth. His genius was destined to 
set them ringing in the imagination of thou- 
sands who never saw Shandon Hill. 

"With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think on 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander 
And thus grow fonder 

Sweet Cork of thee; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee.'* 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 33 

Where St. Fin Barre established his monas- 
tery now stands a noble cathedral, one of the 
handsomest buildings in Ireland. Its pointed 
arches, its lofty towers and spires, its well 
wrought statues and rich windows harmonize 
in a structure both substantial and ornate. 
Looking in admiration at the west front, with 
its beautiful portals and the figures of the 
Bridegroom, the Ten Virgins, the Evangelists 
and Apostles; the gargoyles representing the 
conflict between Avarice and Liberality, Pride 
and Humility, Iodlatry and Faith, Sensuality 
and Chastity ; then up at the central spire 240 
feet high and ornamented with carvings of the 
four beasts of Daniel, I felt that I was behold- 
ing more than a "sermon in stone." It is a 
volume of sermons. Its oratory is that of a. 
thousand sanctified tongues. It speaks with 
the gathered eloquence of thirteen centuries. 

The curious feature of the interior is the 
organ. The pipes are sunken through the 
floor so that the observer may look down upon 
them instead of up at them. This was done to 
avoid obstructing light, and hiding one of the 
exquisite windows. From its lowly place the 
instrument sends its melody high up into the 
lofty arches, and out through choristry and 



34 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

nave filling the remotest recesses with its 
ecstatic sound. Having heard such music it is 
easy to believe in goodness, and peace, and 
love, and angels, and in a heaven whose har- 
monies are eternally unbroken. 

I went from the Cathedral to Queen's Col- 
lege, also in the western part of the city and 
most becomingly situated on an eminence over- 
looking the river. Again I was amply re- 
warded. It is an ideal spot for the scholastic 
training of ambitious young Celts. "Where 
Fin Barre taught let Munster learn," is the 
Inscription upon the entrance to the grounds. 
Munster is the largest of the four provinces of 
Ireland, the others being Ulster, Connaught 
and Leinster. The inscription invokes the 
spell of centuries . In fancy one sees 
the cowled forms of the scholars of a 
former millenium gathering at wisdom's 
shrine to be taught by the great founder him- 
self, for the University of the ancient abbey 
stood on this very same hill. Today the spacious 
grounds are elaborately laid out. There are 
smooth roadways, winding paths, extensive 
lawns, rare varieties of trees and shrubbery, 
botanical gardens, greenhouses, a biological 
laboratory, an astronomical observatory, and 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 35 

Berkeley Hall, a magnificent residence. The 
college buildings are built of light limestone 
on three sides of a square and contain muse- 
ums, libraries, class rooms, examination halls, 
executive offices — everything in fact demanded 
by modern ideas and methods. Queen's Col- 
lege is affiliated with colleges at Galway and 
Belfast in what is known by Act of Parliament, 
as the Royal Irish University. There are de- 
partments in Arts, Law, Medicine, and En- 
gineering. The subject of fees is always in- 
teresting and I discovered that students paid 
two kinds of fees, called College Fees and 
Class Fees — to be paid of course before ad- 
mission to classes. These little regulations are 
important in the educational world. The Col- 
lege Fee is ten shillings. That is cheap. The 
Class Fee is one, two, or three pounds for a 
course of lectures according to subject. I do 
not know how cheap that is. So much de- 
pends on both the lecturer and the lectured. 
It was pleasant to linger amid classic shades 
and to think of the days when Irishmen were 
the great scholars of the world. Nor has the 
glory all departed. The present incumbent of 
the honorable office of President of Queen's 
College, Cork, is an excellent man of letters. 



36 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

His name appears in the Book of Regulations 
as Bertram C. A. Windle, M. A., D. Sc, M. D., 
F. R, S., F. S. A. 

The Court House is a building of which the 
city and county of Cork may well be proud. 
At the time of the Assizes, the Judge is a 
mighty man of valor and honor. He is radi- 
ant in wig and scarlet coat. He rides to the 
Court House in elegant equipage, with mili- 
tary escort. "It's the other way in our coun- 
try," said a Pennsylvania judge as the pageant 
flashed by, "with us a judge is allowed to come 
and go like an honest man." Was he envious? 

Cork is a city of a few great avenues broad 
and clean, and of many lanes crooked and un- 
clean. During an evening stroll through some 
of these narrower streets I caught frequent 
glimpses of the squalor concerning which so 
much has been written and said. The Irish- 
man's proverbial indifference to dirt is un- 
questionably a factor in the problem of the 
South. In a particularly unwholesome alley I 
noticed a group of barefooted children pad- 
dling in the filthy drainage. My attention 
was again attracted by a number of pitifully 
ragged boys who had scraped a quantity of 
mud from the gutter and were piling it in a 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 37 

pyramidal heap. I watched the proceeding 
for a few minutes wondering what the climax 
of the sport was to be. The mud pyramid 
rose higher and higher until its size seemed to 
satisfy the ambition of the builders. Then 
they withdrew about equal distances, in differ- 
ent directions, with much shouting and chal- 
lenging and gesticulating. The denouement 
was about to be revealed. It awaited only the 
signal. Excitement ran high. The audience 
was athrill with expectancy. Suddenly there 
was a terrific charge upon the mud heap. The 
first lad to get within reach gave it such a 
vigorous kick that his competitors were be- 
spattered from head to foot. The kicking con- 
tinued from all directions until the pyramid 
had been transferred in sections to the anat- 
omies of the kickers. Obviously they resembled 
a company of American politicians after a live- 
ly campaign. It was glorious fun. The lads 
proceeded immediately to gather more mud 
and I went on my way indulging an impression. 



v. blaeney's secbet. 
"Did yon kiss the Blarney Stone?" 

Some centuries ago, at about the time when 
Christopher Columbus was a little round leg- 
ged lad at play in a narrow street in Genoa, 
there lived in the south of Ireland a great and 
famous man by the name of Cormac Mc- 
Carthy, full chested, brave hearted, glib ton- 
gued. He it was who built a castle at Blarney, 
a little town about five miles from Cork. The 
castle was one hundred and twenty feet high, 
with massive walls and a square tower. It was 
a mighty fortress, practically impregnable. 
In spite of the disfigurements of time and bat- 
tle it has now an isolated nobility like that 
of the scarred hero among recruits. Mounting 
the stone steps to the top of the tower, there is 
no difficulty in locating the talismanic stone. 
The "really true" Blarney Stone is a sill upon 
the south side of the battlement, about twenty 
feet from the top, It is reenforced by bands of 
iron with a railing extending to it upon the 
outside of the wall. The individual who 
would attempt to reach it head downward, af- 
ter the traditional style, would be so hope- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 39 

lessly a stranger to wisdom, that the kissing 
of a thousand Blarney Stones would be of no 
avail. By bending the head backward through 
an opening from the inside of the projecting 
wall, and with the aid of a supporting rod, the 
osculatory act might be safely performed, and 
the "sweet and persuasive eloquence" ob- 
tained. No, I did not do it. I touched the 
magic spot with the ferrule end of my faith- 
ful umbrella, however, and the subtle in- 
fluence connected itself with my tongue by 
way of umbrella stick. 0, there can be no 
doubt about it whatever. As I felt the cur- 
rent rising through my arm I determined to 
achieve fame by announcing to the world this 
new and easy method of obtaining wit and 
eloquence. At last, the coveted gift was 
mine ! But woe is me ! I had neglected at 
the supreme moment to close my lips and the 
precious token under the impetus of its own 
acceleration escaped to the free and fickle 
winds. This is the truest Blarney story ever 
told. It is very evident therefore that to ob- 
tain the greatest benefit from the Blarney 
Stone one must keep his mouth shut. The 
secret is out. 

"Beauteous Blarney" is no myth. Come 



40 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

stand with me for a moment upon the ancient 
battlement. Bear your head to the ozonifer- 
ous breeze. Lift your cheek to the warming 
rays that sift through the thinning clouds. 
Look down upon those sturdy trees that sea- 
son after season lift their banners to the land- 
scape and fling out their message of the life 
that ne'er shall end. Down there in the fairy 
dell where the brook is singing its lullabys to 
the birds is the home of the blue bell, the but- 
tercup, and the daisy. There, too, the tiny 
shamrock whispers contentment to the cud- 
dling sod. Afar, to the North, to the South, 
to the East, to the West — everywhere rolls the 
panorama of glad hills, fertile fields and sil- 
vered streams. Drink in the glory of the day 
and scene, and thank kind Heaven that you 
are not a mediaeval baron besieged in a castle 
whose walls are eighteen feet thick and whose 
turrets drip with the blood of desperate de- 
fenders. 



VI. A. BIT OF BOG. 

From Cork to Bantry is an easy journey by 
rail. In making it I got my first glimpse of 
bog lands, with their oozy soil, their long black 
trenches and rows of turf ready for the peas- 
ants' hearth. There are more than two million 
acres of bogs in Ireland, about one-seventh of 
the total acreage of the country. One cannot 
travel far, therefore, without becoming famil- 
iar with their general features. A bog is 
earth's symbol of desolate solitude. It is one 
of the most sombre of the "myriad forms" 
with which nature holds communion with the 
soul. It bears an aspect of repellent cheer- 
lessness. The pall of decay hangs over it — r 
it is but the sepulchre of the ancient forest. 
Yet out of this charnel house comes the fuel 
for the cheery fires that conquer the chill of 
the peasant's cabin. From darkness comes 
light, and from death springs life more abun- 
dant. 

The economic possibilities of these immense 
bogs are of course very great. They are in 
some places fifty feet deep. The average 
depth of the trenches is fifteen feet. Here are 



42 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

vast coal beds in actual process of formation, 
there being less difference between coal and 
the blacker peat at the bottom of the trenches 
than there is between that and the lighter turf 
at the top. So I was informed by an intelli- 
gent Irishman familiar with peat beds and 
coal deposits. I quote him in preference to 
the books; not that there was anything new 
in the intelligence, but that it was first handed. 
One cannot tell how many handed may be the 
information one gets from a book. 

The turf is cut with a sharp spade-like imple- 
ment into pieces about brick size and exposed 
to dry. It is then gathered into some con- 
venient shed or stacked up in the open to be 
used at convenience. 

On a certain propitious afternoon up in 
Mayo County my brazen little camera gath- 
ered upon its film the impress of a fair colleen 
and her shaggy donkey engaged in the labor 
of transportation. It was a menial task to 
be sure, but there was something of idealism 
and idyllic simplicity in the scene. I thought 
of Ruth following the gleaners at Bethlehem. 
Ah, she was attractive enough, this Irish peas- 
ant girl, — attractive enough for the brush of 
a Raphael. In fact the loosely flowing shawl 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 43 

falling back from the abundant chestnut hair, 
the well rounded face with even features and 
wistful wondering eyes, give just a hint of the 
Sistine Madonna. As for the beast, his ex- 
pression was that of one at peace with all the 
world and with all the worlds. Upon his 
back were two huge baskets almost as large 
as himself, in which the fuel was carried from 
the bog. Often the more prosaic cart is used 
instead of the baskets, and just as often a less 
romantic person than the fair colleen does 
the driving. That was the Ireland that I 
"went out for to see"— the "Ould Ireland " 
of bogs and donkeys and folks. 

Among my souvenirs I have a picture post- 
card made of peat. This is civilization's 
highest compliment to the bog. I was in- 
formed, however, that these cards were not 
popular enough to warrant their continued 
manufacture. Those now in existence may be 
regarded as curiosities. 



VII. GLOSIOTJS GLENGASIFF. 

The Irish coast is a ring of bays and prom- 
ontories. Bantry Bay is a majestic isle-dot- 
ted sweep of water with its marginal hills torn 
into a succession of gullies. At the head of 
the Bay is Glengariff, "Rough Glen/' de- 
clared by Lord Macaulay to be the fairest spot 
in the British Isles. High praise from high 
authority. Glengariff and its environs seemed 
to me to be a composite of the Maine Woods, 
the Catskill Mountains and the Thousand 
Islands.' Such a place on the Atlantic Coast 
of the United States would soon become a 
Mecca for the health and pleasure seekers of 
the whole continent. Salmon and trout fish- 
ing can be enjoyed in all the little streams that 
gurgle through the mystic glens, and the Bay 
abounds in pollock, bass, hake, mackerel, and 
other beauties worth the catching. The 
cormorant, the wild duck and the snipe al- 
lure the man with the gun, not to speak of the 
otters and seals that are reported to inhabit the 
island shores and rock caverns. Nimrods and 
Waaltons can there find sport for many a day. 
Less murderous pleasures, however, were more 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 45 

consonant with the briefness of my visit and 
the conspicuous gentleness of my disposition — 
not to confound gentleness with an over re- 
gard for one's personal comfort and safety, as 
some mistakenly do. 

A sturdy young Glengariff lad was engaged 
as boatman and guide. His broad shoulders, 
thick curly hair, full honest face, and frank, 
-confident, yet deferential, manner excited in- 
terest. I interrogated. I discovered in him 
one of the noble race of McCarthy, Mr. Eu- 
gene McCarthy if you please, who by dividing 
his time between his farm and his boat is able 
to eke out something like an existence. But 
his hopes are across the sea. He purposes some 
day to become an American citizen with a 
steady job and a pretty little surplus in the 
bank. There are thousands such as he in Ire- 
land, whose hearts are set on the American 
paradise. Entering into their visions they 
find remunerative, if laborious, employment in 
this great land, rear their children in an at- 
mosphere of freedom, whose sons in turn pass 
on to the colleges, pulpits, courts and council 
chambers to shape the policies of the nation 
and to safeguard its welfare. They may 
mount, some of them, to the pinnacle of polit- 



46 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

ical preferment, for of such were Andrew 
Jackson and William McKinley, and of such 
also were Monroe, Buchanan, and Arthur. Ave 
Eugene McCarthy ! There 's plenty of room in 
America for the likes of you. 

The "personally conducted" tour around 
the harbor was a success, Eugene himself fur- 
nishing much of the "local color." He took 
me to Cromwell's Bridge, now only a mourn- 
ful stone arch hidden in the trees that stretch 
their ancient branches from side to side of the 
little river. A portion of the bridge was long 
since swept away, but the wonder is that any 
of it remains, for the whole bridge was built 
in a miraculous hurry — in an hour, according 
to the veracious Eugene who was only perpetu- 
ating veracious tradition. I would have 
marvelled had he said a week. The builders 
worked under a mighty incentive. Noble 
Cromwell declared he would off with their 
heads if they exceeded the time limit. That 
was only Cromwell's way of saying "Please 
hurry." "Cromwell must have been a gentle- 
man of decapitating manners," I remarked. 
"Sure sor, he was no gentleman at all, sor," 
said Eugene. "He'd do anything, sor." Eu- 
gene's "sors" came at the rate of about forty 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 47 

per second. There were several islands to be 
pointed out, and the old fort, and the Earl of 
Bantry's beautiful home facing the Bay, and 
the cascade, a crystal veil draping the mossy 
rocks in a framework of holly and laurel as 
lovely as any fairy haunted dell of our dear- 
est dreams. Macaulay's appraisal of the glor- 
ies of Glengariff was not extravagant — at least 
not too extravagant to fit my own mood. So 
delighted was I that I did not want to believe 
that there could be any fairer spot in the King- 
dom. 

The village of Glengariff is small and not 
especially interesting. There is, however, a 
very laudable work being carried on at the 
lace school where about seventy young women 
are becoming experts in the art. The man- 
ageress is a gracious, yet business-like young 
lady, whose name happened to be identical 
with my own patronymic, ''which. " said she, 
il I trust, is nothing against either of us." She 
exhibited some exquisite pieces of Crochet and 
of Needlepoint, Limerick and Carrickmacross 
laces. The making of these laces furnishes re- 
fined employment for many girls who other- 
wise would be doomed to drudgery. It is a 
feature of the great modern movement that 



48 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

has brought new hope to Old Ireland. A re- 
juvenating process is well under way through- 
out the country. It is unmistakably genuine. 
It is artistic, industrial and moral in spirit de- 
pending not primarily on parliamentary poli- 
cies. Such men as Sir Horace Plunkett, by 
putting the emphasis on character, are laying 
the axe to the root of Ireland's difficulties. 
The story of such remedial agencies as the 
Recess Committee, the Congested Districts 
Board, the Irish Agricultural Organization 
Society, the County Councils, the Land Pur- 
chase Acts, etc., is one of the most encouraging 
of modern times, albeit its discussion is too 
weighty a matter for the present narrative. 
The fact that the lace school at Glengariff is 
under the Congested Districts Board illustrates 
something of the method of the Irish indus- 
trial and moral advance and justifies at least a 
passing allusion to the great awakening, out 
of which will march the forces that are to 
dominate Irish history and politics. 

In the dusk of the evening I walked out 
along a lonely road upon the jagged side of a 
wild ravine. As the shadows deepened and 
the cool night wind murmured a weird obli- 
gato to the riotous splashing of a mountain 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 49 

stream as it sported unseen among the rocks, 
a vivid sense of the grandeur of the scene pos- 
sessed me. No human being was in sight, none 
within sound of my voice probably. Alone, 
with the illimitable glory of earth and sea and 
sky ! Yet not alone for there were the friendly 
stars, and the friendly trees, and the friendly 
mountains, and better than all, the conscious- 
ness of that Supreme Personality always in 
communication with persons. Even so, He 
smiles upon us through all shadows, and 
loves us through all changes. There and then 
I realized, as never before, that the two para- 
mount verities through all the Universe are 
God and Love. Thus "Glorious Glengariff" 
opened its heart of beauty and revealed its 
sweetest secret. Now can I join with one 
gifted in the art of song: — 

1 ' Glengariff ; on thy shaded shore, 

I've wandered when the sun was high, 
Have seen the moonlight showers pour, 

Through thy umbrageous canopy; 
Have heard thy voice of music give, 

Its tones of sweetness to mine ear, 
By waterfalls that murmuring, live 

To flow through many a changing year." 



VIII. THE SONG AT TWILIGHT. 

''By Killarney 's lakes and fells, 

Emerald Isles and winding bays, 
Mountain paths and woodland dells 
Mem 'ry ever fondly strays * * * * ' ' 

The voice of the singer was full of that 
subtle heart-reaching pathos that suits so 
well the old familiar song of Balfe's. Pythag- 
oras taught and practised the medicament of 
music, and Plato considered a nation's songs 
the gauge of a nation's morals. On these 
ancient and accepted principles, the composer 
of Killarney, though he had never written 
"The Bohemian Girl," deserves the gratitude 
of his countrymen. It was the evening of my 
arrival at Killarney. There, amid the glories 
so feelingly portrayed by the poet, I listened 
to the singing of that wondrous melody. It 
came floating from the white throat of a gifted 
young Killarney girl, in rich mezzo soprano 
tones. Verily it seemed as though the hills 
had actually broken forth into song. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 51 

''Bounteous nature loves all lands, 

Beauty wanders everywhere; 
Footprints leaves on many strands, 

But her home is surely here. 
Angels fold their wings and rest 

In that Eden of the West, 
Beauty's home, Killarney, 

Ever fair, Killarney." 

The journey from Glengariff had been made 
by coach, an exhilarating ride of more than 
forty miles on smooth roads winding around 
and over the grizzled mountains of Counties 
Cork and Kerry. The noonday refreshment 
was taken at Kenmare, and it happened to be 
"Fair Day" at Kenmare. Fair Day, let it be 
understood, is an honorable institution of great 
local importance. The first token of excite- 
ment to present itself to me was the spectacle 
of a family of eight riding into town in a little 
donkey cart built for one. The streets were 
rendered almost impassable by the herding in 
them of animals commonly considered lower 
than man. Every farmer within ten or fifteen 
miles around had brought in his stock to be 
bartered or sold. There was a Noaehian 
variety of cows, calves, pigs, goats, sheep, 
poultry, — everything in fact that was alive and 
marketable. What haggling and coaxing and 
bargain driving and interpositions, and slap- 



52 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

ping of fingers! Thus dramatically does the 
Celt "crack a bargain." A very large man 
with a very red face and a very thick mous- 
tache and carrying a very heavy cane was 
haggling with a very little man with very 
sharp eyes and very thin side whiskers. 
"Show me three fingers," said the big fellow. 
He gave the extended fingers a tremendous 
slap, exclaiming "111 make it three pound 
six!" "I'll not do it," said the little fellow. 
There was a magnificent flourish of the heavy 
cane, and the possessor thereof turned away 
with a noble air of defiance. He was called 
back, however, for more persuasion. "I knew 
I'd make ye call me," said he, with a tantal- 
izing sneer. I left him the center of an 
extremely animated group of Milesians. The 
main street of the town, along which I was 
making slow progress, was, for the time being, 
nothing better than an elongated barn-yard. 
They still do things that way in Ireland. 

But Killarney! Mecca of tourists, theme 
of poets, paradise of artists ! Killarney, at 
last ! Small wonder that the voice of the fair 
singer that night grew richer with feeling as 
she proceeded: — 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 53 

"Innisf alien's ruined shrine 
May suggest a passing sigh, 
But man's faith can ne'er decline 

Such God's wonders floating by***" 

Wonders! God's wonders indeed. Wonders of 
lake and stream, rock, mountain, forest and 
foliage interspersed with wrecked memorials 
of the ancient Faith. 

"Castle Lough and Glena Bay, 

Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest, 
Still at Muckross you must pray 
Though the monks are now at rest." 

Muckross is a prayer — a broken yet eloquent 
cry, a sob out of the centuries. The monks 
have long since passed to their rest, yet 
enough remains of their buildings to show that 
they were remarkably beautiful, embowered in 
the shade of kingly trees and costumed in 
glossy ivy. Outlines of choir, transept and 
nave, can still be traced. Imagination can 
reproduce much of what time and tyrant have 
destroyed. The old yew tree still has root in 
the square around which runs the gloomy 
cloister where pious devotees once loitered and 
discussed the problems of their order. That 
was long ago, a century and more before 
Elizabeth sat on the throne of the Tudors or 



54 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

ever Shakespeare had filled the earth with the 
perfume of his genius. 

Heart throbs were in the notes: — 

"Angels wonder not that man 
There would fain prolong life's span, 
Beauty's home, Killarney 
Ever fair, Killarney." 

The Gap of Dunloe is a wild ravine, cleft, 
says the legend, by the great sword of Fenn 
McCoul. The distance from Kate Kearney's 
Cottage at the entrance of the Gap to Lord 
Brandon's Cottage at the head of the Upper 
Lake is about six miles. The journey is usually 
made on horseback. On either side are the 
mountains, the Tomies and the Purple Moun- 
tains on the left, the Macgillycuddy Reeks on 
the right, with Carrantuohill 3414 feet high. 
0, but it was a glorious ride I had that day! 
There were the savage glories of gorge, crag 
and bowlder; the overshadowing heights of 
the mountains, the gurgle and splash of the 
tumbling river, the interweaving of the 
heather and arbutus. Mine was a good looking 
animal, about the best in the Gap, I thought. 
She had a white spot on her forehead, star- 
shaped, so I dubbed her Venus, after the god- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 55 

dess of beauty and the loveliest of the planets. 
She had a well-formed neck, luxuriant 
mane, and limbs like the bronzes of St. 
Mark's. A level stretch here and there 
made it possible to show her speed, 
when the pounding of hoofs upon the hard 
road brought the echoes from the crags, 
sounding like a cavalry troop at charge. It was 
splendid, thrilling! 

" Purple Mountain," gorgeous in color, tow- 
ered like a king in robes of state. Black Lough, 
in which St. Patrick drowned the last of the 
Irish serpents, glittered like a jewel on the 
royal insignia. At length the summit was 
reached, and I could look down upon the 
Black Valley, and the Upper Lake. I cannot 
describe that view. I am sure I do not want 
to try. Moses saw nothing so grand from 
Nebo's top. 

"No place else can charm the eye 

With such bright and varied tints, 
Every rock that you pass by 

Verdure broiders or besprints. 
Virgin there the green grass grows, 

Every morn springs natal day, 
Bright hued berries daff the snows, 

Smiling winter's frown away. 
Angels often pausing there, 



56 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Doubt if Eden were more fair. 
Beauty's home, Killarney, 
Ever fair, Killarney." 

It is true not only of the heathen lands of 
which Heber wrote in his immortal Missionary 
Hymn that a pleasing prospect often contrasts 
itself with the vileness of man. Many a sad 
spectacle will be seen in a day at Killarney, 
unless one be disposed to think only of the 
humorous side of the situation. A white haired 
woman, gaunt and wrinkled, her bare feet and 
ankles showing beneath her ragged skirt, im- 
portuned me to buy a pair of heavy woolen 
socks of her own knitting. "It's a poor 
counthry, sor, ' ' was her reply to the suggestion 
that she needed something of that character 
for her own use. The scores of women scat- 
tered all through the Gap of Dunloe, selling 
illegally distilled whiskey, poetically called 
"mountain dew" and "poteen," (it is 
brewed in small pots) create many a 
laugh, leave many a painful reflection. They 
haunt the ravine like witches. Like an 
apparition from the nether regions, a shriveled 
Hecate suddenly appeared in the path and 
cried, "Good day, sor, and good luck, sor, and 
will ye be takin' a drap o' the poteen, sor, and 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 57 

if ye don't want to drink will ye be after lavin' 
the f ootin ' anyway, sor. ' ' She had in her hand 
a bottle of milk and a small glass, and hidden 
in the folds of her shawl the bottle of "dew." 
For six pence she would sell a glass of milk, 
or a "wee drap" of the whiskey, or I might 
buy the milk and accept the whiskey as a gift. 
It is a nice elastic arrangement, adjustable to 
any ordinary conscience. A person with no 
thirst to assuage may, nevertheless, find op- 
portunity to part with his coin, as these 
creatures are as willing to beg as to trade. 
"It's an American gintleman ye are," said 
one, taking hold of the stirrup to detain me. 
"How did you guess that," said I. "Sure," 
said she, "the American gintlemen are so nice 
and kind to the poor. They always lave us 
somethin'. " Verily, a reputation is a valuable 
asset in this hungry world. It may be funny, 
this wayside begging and whiskey selling, but 
in the Ireland that is to be, the redeemed, the 
uplifted, the new Ireland, there will be none 
of it. 

The boat ride across the lakes to the landing 
at Ross Castle opens a matchless vision of 
miraculous beauty. Every stroke of the oar 
produces a new scene, and each scene is a 



58 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

masterpiece framed in gold. Such grace of 
outline, such wealth and subtlety of color ! The 
Louvre and the Uffizzi have their priceless 
treasures, but Killarney is the gallery of God. 
Who but the Divine Artist could do such tint- 
ing, who but the Divine Sculptor could fashion 
such forms! The rare Irish imagination has 
spun the gorgeous gossamer of its fancy from 
shore to summit, and every conceivable spot is 
identified with some captivating tale of 
banshee, devil or hero. The composite effect 
is one of ecstatic enchantment. The Upper 
Lake with its bordering hills and island jewels, 
the Long Range connecting with the Middle or 
Muckross Lake, the rapids, the Old Weir 
Bridge, Dinish Island, Innisfallen in the Lower 
Lake, the vine embraced walls of old Ross 
Castle, the red deer feeding in the marge, the 
cloud ranks maneuvering along the sky li:±e, 
the voices of the boatmen, the almost reverent 
quietness of the passengers, seem now but +he 
features of a never-to-be-forgotten dream. 

Eagle's Nest, rising nearly a thousand foet 
from the water, was to me a breathing giant 
rather than a soulless mass of rock. The 
eagle building his eyrie there is a king amid 
splendors unapproached in any court of 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 59 

empire. The echo is astounding. A bugle 
blast is taken up and passed from peak to 
peak with remarkable distinctness. Its last 
faint note in the far distance is like the voice 
of an angel calling the saints to Heaven. The 
reverberating of these musical echoes among 
Killarney 's lovely hills is the perfect merging 
of the terrestrial with the celestial. 

"Music there for Echo dwells, 

Makes each sound a harmony; 
Many voiced the chorus swells 

Till it faints in ecstasy. 
With the charmful tints below 

Seems the Heaven above to vie; 
All rich colors that we know 

Tinge the cloud-wreath in that sky 
Wings of angels so might shine, 

Glancing back swift light divine. 
Beauty's home, Killarney! 

Ever fair, Killarney !" 

It was my pleasure to meet at Killarney in 
the beatiful grounds of the Lake Hotel an 
interesting character in the person of one 
"Jotter," an artist in the employ of the Tuck 
Company. I watched him at his work for a 
time and saw him with loving hand quicken 
the canvas with the hues of nature, comment- 
ing pleasantly the while upon the delicate 



60 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

shades of color lurking on hill and cloud. To 
the eye of the man of training and talent the 
scene was incomparable. He declared his 
belief that the angels do actually fold their 
wings and rest at Killarney. Were I an angel 
I would ask no sweeter ecstasy of joy. 



IX. LIMEBICK ON THE SHANNON. 

Among the oft recurring memories of dear 
old college days, the dearer the further they 
recede, are the strains of that boisterous song 
celebrating the valor of a pugnacious Hiber- 
nian, who has much to say concerning the tail 
of his coat, and wherein are the lines : — 

' ' In the A. M. we met at Killarney, 
The Shannon we crossed in a boat." 

"When I came to cross the Shannon myself I 
had a sense of acquaintanceship for which, I 
suppose, the uproarious song was responsible. 

The Shannon is the Irish Amazon. In fact it 
is the largest river in the British Isles. Its 
sources are far to northward, and in places it 
is very narrow and quite unnavigable. Again 
it widens out into lake dimensions, and these 
lakes occupy no mean place among the pic- 
turesque charms of the country. Finally the 
stream pours its great flood into the ocean 
through a harbor gateway seven miles in 
width. 

My first glimpse of the Shannon was obtained 
from the quays and bridges of old Limerick. 



62 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

The city occupies both sides of the river, and 
an island between. It is called the "City of 
the Violated Treaty." Thereby hangs a tale, 
an oft-told tale, a tale to stir the blood of the 
honor loving in all lands. Close by the 
Thomond Bridge, and elevated on a granite 
pedestal may be seen a rough stone, called the 
Treaty Stone. Around that stone the thrilling 
story swings, for upon it a famous document 
was signed more than two hundred years ago. 
The situation was rather interesting, as Mark 
Twain might say. The year was 1691. Prot- 
estant William and Catholic James had been 
struggling for the mastery. Limerick was 
then, next to Dublin, the most important city 
in Ireland. In August of the previous year 
King William had led his army against it, had 
battered a breach in the strong wall, and had 
sent his men through it to fight for hours 
within the city in as daring and stubborn 
combat as heroes can wage against heroes. 
They were finally driven back, and Limerick, 
with broken walls and bloody streets, still 
flung defiance at the disappointed King. He 
soon returned to England, leaving his ablest 
generals in command. After Athlone, Sligo 
and Galway had been taken, the second siege 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 63 

of Limerick began. The bombardment con- 
tinued antil there was hardly enough left of 
the city to fight over. The combatants on both 
sides were exhausted. The Treaty of Limerick 
was signed on the third day of October. It 
was an honorable treaty, and a fair one. It 
guaranteed religious liberty and restoration of 
privileges to Catholics. It permitted the sol- 
diers of the garrison to join the English army, 
or to leave the country if they preferred. The 
great name of Ginkel, commander of the 
English, went down on that treaty; so did the 
greater name of Sarsfield, defender of Lim- 
erick. It was a righteous treaty. King 
William gladly ratified it. It signalized the 
close of the Jacobite wars in Ireland. 

Just one year and three days after the 
Treaty Stone had thus been consecrated, Par- 
liament met at Dublin, and after the manner 
of parliaments proceeded to nullify the terms 
of the treaty by passing laws directly opposed 
thereto. Such is history as the Irishman reads 
it, and so much at least must be recalled on a 
visit to Limerick. I gazed long and hard at 
that monument to perfidy and wondered if its 
language was understood by the jolly lads 
playing at its base. 



64 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Across the river I could see the rounded 
wall of old King John's Castle, whose masonry- 
antedates Runnymede. It is another object 
lesson. It has survived shock upon shock, has 
been defended by many generations of fighting 
men, has sheltered the soldiers of Plantaganet, 
Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian monarchs; and 
what tyrant John builded, Edward still em- 
ploys to barrack his garrison. Even then, at 
the time of the building of the Castle, Limerick 
was an old city, older than New York now is. 
Antiquity is one of its charms. Yet its main 
thoroughfare, George Street, prides itself on 
its modern aspect, with its good hotels, large 
stores and throngs of eager shoppers. The 
magnificent quays and docks show that the 
natural advantages of the noble old river are 
thoroughly appreciated. 

In addition to its lace, Limerick is boastful 
of its three b's — bacon, butter and beauty. 
The last mentioned applies of course to human 
beings of the feminine gender. The guide 
books boldly challenge the visitor to observe 
the loveliness of the Limerick ladies, and who 
could be so ungallant as to fail to perceive it ? 

Across the Sarsfield Bridge, near one end of 
which stands a statue of Lord Fitzgibbon — 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 65 

one of the heroes of Balaclava, flows a stream 
of humanity almost as steady as the current 
that runs under its five arches. Having spent 
some hours in visiting various parts of the 
city, and having seen its most interesting 
streets, buildings and monuments, I gave 
myself the luxury of about twenty minutes' 
rest and observation upon the bridge. Loafing 
comes easy to some mortals. There were a few 
masters in the art leaning against the open bal- 
ustrade opposite. Evidently I was as interest- 
ing to them as they were to me. Loafing is the 
same in all languages. The moving throng 
was a fascinating pageant. There were jaunty 
nurses with prettily dressed children in 
charge, and there were children ragged and 
nurseless, all unconscious of their disadvan- 
tage. There were old women in soiled shawls, 
queer and quaking, and there were handsome 
women in elegant equipages. There were men 
robust and alert, and there were men wizened 
and dull eyed. Pedestrians strolled or hurried, 
according to purpose or whim, equestrians sat 
proudly on spirited mounts, teamsters urged on 
their indifferent horses, and jarveys flourished 
their whips and solicited patronage. It was 
the hour for the evening delivery of milk, and 



66 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

donkey carts laden with pear shaped cans were 
being driven about by girls and women, for 
the Limerick milkman is not a man. There at 
the bridge I saw the life of Limerick in cameo. 
The scene remains clear cut in memory, a fre- 
quent reminder of the pleasure afforded by a 
visit to the royal city of the old Munster kings, 
the "City of the Violated Treaty." 



X. A. ROYAL BIVEB. 

From the cities and towns, farms and facto- 
ries of the West of Ireland may be gathered a 
harvest of impressions impossible to those who 
confine themselves to the more familiar scenes 
of Killarney, Belfast, and Dublin. Herein is 
travel so far superior to reading as a source of 
information, especially where through the 
smoke of controversy the truth is rarely seen; 
the Celt who writes his diatribes with 
the ink of anathema proves little but 
that his veins are full of boiling blood. The 
Britisher is entitled to his bias. To visit the 
scenes and to converse with the actors, con- 
cerning which and concerning whom so many 
conflicting judgments are delivered, enables 
one to shape his own opinions to something 
like distinctness. So I found it, especially 
during the pilgrimage from Limerick to Sligo. 

To Killaloe on the Shannon is a pleasant 
hour's journey by rail. The town is small, with 
a population of about 900, but it is very large 
in the measure of its environal beauty and its 
natural advantages of location. The moun- 
tains, great and green, arise around it, the 



68 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

river rushes before it, and Lough Derg 
stretches away to the northward. An attrac- 
tive hotel, most pleasantly situated and sur- 
rounded by artistically kept grounds and 
gardens, assures the comfort of guests. Of the 
quiet yet lavish loveliness of the place too much 
can hardly be said in way of praise. It has its 
industries and its antiquities, a venerable 
cathedral, and the traditional site of a famous 
palace of Brian Boru. Its recreative advan- 
tages are numerous. A tired man, a man 
wearied of the city's din, or determined on the 
sports of forest and stream would find delight 
at Killaloe. Darkness gathers very slowly in 
this latitude, the twilight lingering as though 
loath to relinquish the glorious landscape. Be- 
ing fond of evening walks and starry 
skies, I indulged myself for a time in 
that gentle form of excitement. The air 
was cool and vocal with pleasing sounds 
— the splash of water, the sigh of wind, 
the silvery call of birds from the wood- 
land, the echo of laughter and song from 
the village. Ursa Major spread out his huge 
form overhead, and great Arcturus was swing- 
ing his blazing light low over the Western 
hills. Cygnus, once a swan, now a cross of 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 69 

diamonds brooched upon the Milky Way, shone 
like the sign of Constantine. The heavenly 
host swung on in noiseless march, filling the 
night with the glory of their pageantry. 
"Ah!" thought I, "The Irishman is a lucky 
lad after all. From the greenest sod on earth 
he can look up to the brightest stars of heaven, 
while his ears are filled with nature's sweetest 
orchestrations. He is a lucky lad indeed." 
That evening at Killaloe was keyed with inspi- 
rations and crowded with hallelujahs. The 
day following was to be one of rapturous 
amens. 

"Queen of the Irish Lakes" is the proud 
title borne by Lough Derg. Not so large as 
Lough Neagh in the North East, and not so 
famous as Killarney in the South West, it is 
large enough and lovely enough to merit 
queenly honors. There are more than a hun- 
dred lakes in Ireland. To be queen among 
them is high distinction. It lies along the 
course of the Shannon for twenty-five miles, 
its extended banks forming a vast reservoir in 
which is gathered an immense volume of water. 

The steamer started at 8 a.m. to carry its 
few passengers across the lake and on up the 
river as far as Banagher. I was soon conscious 



70 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

of the impress of wondrously impressive con- 
ditions. The Emerald hills of Clare, Tipperary, 
and Galway stood around like Maids of Honor 
to the Queen. Bordered with rich and varied 
foliage, the far reaching Lough seemed all the 
more majestic beneath heavy skies. Storm 
clouds, like black steeds in rampage, chased 
across the heavens and down over the Galway 
horizon, followed by lighter formations 
through which the sun sifted his fire, streaking 
clouds, hills and lake with lines of glowing 
color. And so it continued through the morn- 
ing, a soul moving vision in black, white, 
green and gold, — a scenic rhapsody of rare 
magnificence. How futile are the or- 
dinary figures of speech as interpreta- 
tions of nature 's grander moods ! I ventured 
as much in a casual remark to a stranger 
standing near by, and he readily agreed. It 
proved to be the opening of a conversation 
that lasted until he left the steamer at 
Portumna. There are companionable fellows 
the world around. None more so than the in- 
telligent Irishman. 

He was a Dublin man. In dress, speech, 
and manners he was a typical Dublin man, 
sufficient commendation for those who know 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 71 

Dublin. He was of medium height, with light 
brown hair, moustache of a still lighter shade, 
cheeks aglow with rich color, eyes large and 
blue and kindly. A gentleman he was every 
inch of him. His straw hat was of the latest 
Dublin fashion, and the inevitable rain coat 
fitted unusually well about his athletic figure. 
He made constant use of a binocular field glass, 
which he generously shared with me and 
which worked miracles upon the Elysian 
scenes' through which we were passing. But 
not for these things, primarily, is he now 
remembered. I soon made the discovery that 
my friend was one of the agents representing 
the Congested Districts Board, even then 
travelling in the prosecution of his duties in 
connection with the most daring of all cam- 
paigns for the amelioration of the country's 
woes and wrongs. So he was more to me than 
a typical Dublinite, more than an agreeable 
companion for a few hours' journey. In his 
own delightful person he seemed to sum up, 
the history of many decades and to prophesy 
the triumph of justice in the new era. For 
the nonce he personified Ireland's long battle 
with poverty. 

Three-fourths of the population of Ireland 



72 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

are dependent upon agriculture. Given the 
proper incentive, adequate equipment and 
education, the Irish farmer might have led a 
joyous existence, conscious at least of his own 
independence. An iniquitous system of land 
ownership robbed him of the incentive. 
Poverty and ignorance interacting one upon 
the other, forced upon him a drudgery that 
meant the death of hope. He has been a pitiful 
figure among earth toilers. He hates the gov- 
ernment under which he is compelled to live. 
A tide of emigration carried away his best 
friends, reducing the population from eight to 
four millions in a few years. Habits of indo- 
lence, intemperance, and contentiousness deep- 
ened the pathos of his plight. His wrongs and 
his wrongdoings, his sorrows and his sins have 
complicated a problem in the solution of which 
the whole world is interested. Back of it all 
there is a long, long story which must be read 
with judicial mind, the probability being 
strong that the more familiar the reader be- 
comes with the details of the story, the less 
inclined he will be toward rendering a final 
verdict. 

As the little steamer chugged along merrily 
tossing the water from its bow and leaving a 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 73 

white swell astern, innumerable hills poking 
into the landscape dotted with farms and occa- 
sionally surmounted by ruins, certainly pic- 
turesque and presumably historic, we discussed 
the " Irish Problem" — the Irishman and I. 
The discussion took the form of questions and 
answers, he furnishing the answers. He was, 
I think, thoroughly informed, quite unbiased, 
and unusually frank. He was courteous 
enough also to show no sign of weariness under 
the inquisition, in fact declared that he enjoyed 
it. He repudiated all claims to philanthropy, 
saying that while it was true that he was en- 
gaged in carrying out the provisions of 
philanthropic legislation, he was well paid for 
his work, and deserved no more praise than 
those engaged in other lines of business. It 
was for this man, however, rather than for 
Members of Parliament to apply parliamentary 
decisions directly to the peasant and his 
family, and there would be abundant oppor- 
tunity for tact, kindliness, and diplomatic dis- 
crimination on his part. .He related some 
incidents showing the need of these attributes. 
In selecting those to whom the opportunity of 
going to the larger and better farms should 
first be offered, the Scriptural rule, "Unto him 



74 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

that hath shall be given" is applied; "for," 
said my worthy friend, "the man who best 
succeeds under disadvantages is most deserv- 
ing of the better chance." This bit of sound 
philosophy and practical wisdom is capable of 
a very wide application to present day condi- 
tions in the Emerald Isle. 

Portumna is a small agricultural center in 
Galway County near the northern end of the 
lake. My affable companion bade me good bye 
at the landing, swung lightly to the seat of a 
jaunting car and was soon lost to view on the 
long road that leads into the town. I was left 
to the quiet contemplation of the Shannon 
scenery and to certain ruminations upon a 
series of events that seem about to culminate 
in a new baptism of happiness for a long 
unhappy land. 

On the 22nd day of January, 1801, the "Act 
of Union" having been signed by King George 
III. on the first day of the preceding August, 
the "combined" parliament met at London. 
The Dublin parliament had suicided under 
what pressure and provocation the purer 
politics of today can hardly conceive. Since 
that time, legislation for Ireland has emanated 
from Westminster. The century opened under 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 75 

most disheartening circumstances. Kobert Em- 
met, young and ardent, blundered into an in- 
surrection, and the executioner terminated his 
career. The country writhed in a fever of 
discontent and despair. The contortions were 
due to political and economic, racial and 
religious difficulties. Gaunt poverty stalked 
through the land and breathed misery 
and death through the green valleys. 
In 1838, poor houses were provided for 
the destitute. The act authorizing them 
was the result of investigations carried on by a 
royal commission. The commission reported 
frightful conditions. More than two million 
people were in extreme want, living in miser- 
able hovels, sleeping on straw or on the hard 
earth. A meal of dried potatoes or wild herbs 
once a day was the usual portion. Many a 
family was saved from utter extinction by the 
Poor House. In that same year Father Mathew 
began his heroic crusade against drunkenness, 
one of the contributing causes of wretchedness 
everywhere. But poor houses and pledge 
signing campaigns were no sufficient remedy 
for the foul conditions, nor could they ward off 
the agonies yet to come. They came, those 
indescribable agonies of the famine of "Black 



76 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Forty-seven." The crops failed utterly and 
the peasants died by hundreds and thousands 
and tens of thousands until a quarter of the 
population had perished. Terrible ! No other 
European country has ever received such a 
scourging. Woe upon woe, wound after 
wound, sorrow within sorrow and a multipli- 
cation of sorrows. 0, Isle of Destiny, was it 
for this that the bold Milesians sought the 
slopes of thy green hills, thy brimming lakes, 
thy ravishing rivers? 

Ireland bowed and bleeding, yet brave, won 
the world's pity. The consciences of legis- 
lators were awakened. Men in power of ex- 
alted position championed the cause of the 
afflicted. Bright and Gladstone were both 
eloquent, good, and compassionate. Yet the 
way to the light was through a jungle of 
experimental legislation. By the repeal of 
Corn Laws people could get bread at lower 
cost, but were eventually placed at a disadvan- 
tage in trade competition. Bankrupted land- 
lords sold their property under the Encum- 
bered Estates Act of 1849, but voracious spec- 
ulators bought up the estates and the tenants' 
trials were heavier than before. The agitation 
known as "Ribbonism" followed with the 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 77 

usual incidents of depredation and murder. 
The Tenants' League of 1850 was of little 
consequence. The Fenian excitement of the 
next decade stirred England to a keener sense 
of the urgency of the situation. The Prot- 
estant Episcopal Church was disestablished in 
Ireland in 1869, and at the same time the 
government assumed the right to purchase the 
estate of an embarrassed landlord and to sell 
it to tenants on easy terms. Here we behold 
the gleaming of a plan and a principle of in- 
calculable value to Ireland. More than six 
thousand tenants became land owners under 
that act. Thus, after many centuries, the land 
began to pass back into the possession of the 
people, as it had been in the time prior to the 
Norman rule. Then followed the days of the 
fame of Michael Davitt and Charles Stewart 
Parnell, and the Land League of 1879, and 
the Gladstone Land Bill of 1881, granting the 
right of Fair Rent, Fixed Hold, and Free Sale, 
for which the Land League had contended. A 
brilliant dawn arose in the Land Pur- 
chase Act of 1885, when Parliament put 
$25,000,000 at the disposal of Irish tenants for 
the purchase of farms. The black night had 
passed, the sun was well up over the horizon. 



78 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Another grant was voted in 1888. Three years 
later Balfour secured $170,000,000 for the same 
purpose. This was legislation magniiique. The 
G-overnment had acquired the habit. Special 
attention was given to this backward 
Western section with its congested dis- 
tricts and poor farms. County Councils 
were established in 1898, through which 
a considerable measure of self govern- 
ment is now in force. The Nineteenth Century 
closed in a blaze of new life for the "Old Sod." 
In the Wyndham Land Act of 1903 we behold 
the reform program in full swing. The Hiber- 
nian hates the Government and will continue to 
hate, thanking God for the privilege, but 
there will be less reason for it in the future 
than there has been in the past. After reading 
"The Making of Ireland and Its Undoing," by 
Alice Stopford Greene, one should turn to 
"Ireland in the New Century," by Sir Horace 
Plunkett. 

Northward from the Lough, the Shannon is 
a narrow stream running through the meadow 
lands of Galway. In the rushing and receding 
waters of the steamer's wake the fringing 
reeds kept bowing like so many Hindus 
salaaming to the Maharajah. A delicious odor 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 79 

filled the air. Never had I inhaled such sweet- 
ness. It was a delicate yet decided aroma 
extracted from the rich meadows and wafted 
about by the wizard breezes for the delecta- 
tion of sensitive noses. I took deep draughts 
of it into my lungs as a medicament more 
precious than apothecaries' compounds. Also, 
I recalled other odors by way of contrast, and 
am willing to make affidavit that Ireland can 
furnish both extremes. Finally, with the fra- 
grance of the Galway meadows still lingering 
upon our senses, we swung under the stone 
bridge at Banagher and the steamer was made 
fast to the landing. 

One long gently winding street stretching 
away from the river to the little Protestant 
church on the hill, good macadam roadway, 
cobble-stone sidewalks, buildings one and two 
stories high, plastered and whitewashed, some 
with old thatched roofs and some with new 
slate roofs; dingy stores mostly of the "spirit" 
variety; a prevailing primitiveness, dashed 
here and there with the colors of the modern 
post-card — such is Banagher to the strolling 
stranger. I believe there is a distillery at 
Banagher, another evidence of the ubiquity of 
evil. 



80 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

The bridge is a series of arches, plain but 
solid, the legatee of the honor bequeathed by 
the old one built four hundred years ago. 
There are ancient barracks down by the river. 
I know not how ancient they may be. Hunting 
up dates or guessing at them grows wearisome 
in a country crowded with antiquities. 

Banagher is the terminus for Shannon 
steamers, and also for a branch line of the 
Great Southern and Western Railway. Thence 
my route lay through Ferbane to Clara and 
Athlone. 



XI. CLARA AND ATHLONE. 

The population of Clara is given as 1,111. 
It is a number one town, therefore, in at least 
four respects. It has a large jute mill, I re- 
member, and I had a most interesting talk 
with its superintendent. He was Scotch and 
Protestant and had some interesting things to 
say about the town and its people. There are 
some beautiful estates in the vicinity. I was 
attracted by the groups of people standing 
near the entrance of the Catholic church 
and by the numbers constantly passing in and 
out. I joined the line of ingression. The occa- 
sion proved to be a gathering of school chil- 
dren for the awarding of prizes. There must 
have been four or five hundred boys and girls 
filling up the entire nave of the church, while 
proud parents and interested friends crowded 
the side aisles and transept. The cildren were 
well dressed and wore their sashes and badges 
with evident pride. It was as clean and in- 
telligent a company as we are accustomed to 
see in our public schools. As for the adults, 
there was a difference. The majority seemed 
poorly dressed and many were disheveled and 



82 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

dirty. They certainly were no tidier than our 
poorer tenement dwellers are apt to be. The 
day was rather muggy, and the atmosphere in 
the church was decidedly offensive. It was with 
some difficulty and with considerable discom- 
fort that I reached a point of vantage, both 
for seeing and hearing. There stood the 
Bishop, properly rotund of figure, attired in 
elegant Episcopal raiment, with mitre and 
crozier, addressing as eager an audience as was 
ever hushed in the presence of ecclesiastical 
dignity. His language was plain, his counsel 
direct and sound. Then there was the reading 
of a list of names, and in response to each the 
child designated came forward, knelt before 
the Bishop, kissed his ring, and received from 
his hand a token, usually a book or gruesome 
picture of the tortured Savior. The full signifi- 
cance of the ceremony I could not compre- 
hend, but that scene has arisen in memory 
many many times, always with an ac- 
companiment of interrogation points. What 
may have been the impression made 
upon those plastic minds? How strong 
a factor will that impression be in the 
process of the unfolding of character? Is 
there a better way to mold the lives of Erin's 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 83 

coming citizens? Do such influences in child- 
hood account for the Irishman's unquestioned 
devotion to his religion? Can an educational 
system be over-charged with religion ? Is there 
any relevance in the observation of a certain 
bold and impious American to the effect that 
Ireland has more rogues in the Rogues 7 Gallery 
and more saints in the Saints' Calendar than 
any other country on the planet? 

Sectarianism is still a live wire in Ireland. 
But recently the Lower House of Parliament 
passed Mr. Redmond's bill seeking to remove 
all disabilities from Catholics and so to alter 
the King's Oath as to rid it of the obnoxious 
allusion to Catholicism. The Premier favored 
the bill. There is the usual "view with alarm" 
attitude on the part of many Protestants. Full 
forty years have passed since the disestablish- 
ment of the Protestant Episcopal Church in 
Ireland. As there are but three counties 
having more Protestants than Catholics the 
term "priest ridden" is still applicable, yet 
there is no doubt that in many cases the priests 
ride well and for the good of the ridden. 
Religious prejudice is still carried to extremes 
utterly unknown in America. I was strongly 
urged in one place not to patronize a certain 



84 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

hotel because, even though it was the best hotel 
in the city, it was owned by a Catholic. I 
rested that night very comfortably in the best 
hotel. 

There are about 61,000 Methodists in Ireland 
and 250 Methodist ministers. For thirty years 
laymen have had equal representation in the 
Annual Conferences, and are very generally 
welcomed to the pulpits. This utter absence 
of sacerdotalism brings Methodism into sharp 
contrast with Romanism. The Presbyterians 
are strong, especially in Ulster, having a fol- 
lowing of over 400,000. The Church of Ireland 
(Protestant) has a membership of nearly 600,000. 
The Catholic population is said to be 3,321,011. 
This comes very close to being two-thirds of 
the entire population of the island. Romanism 
cannot be crushed in Ireland nor will Prot- 
estantism die, but Irishmen of all denomina- 
tions must come to a larger realization of the 
joys and obligations of the brotherhood of the 
Cross. Thus only can the broader prosperity 
be achieved, and thus only can the Prince of 
Peace be honored according to the deserving 
of His great name. 

Diagram Ireland as a target and Athlone will 
be found within the bull's-eye circle. Athlone is 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 85 

central, distant but 78 miles from Dublin. 
Athlone is ancient, and historically important. 
Athlone is a Shannon city, it straddles the 
river. Athlone reminded me again of the 
only King John — for the Castle was built in 
his time ; also of Ginkell and St. Ruth, rival 
generals who contended for possession in the 
stirring days of James II. ; also of the Duke 
of Wellington, who was once quartered there ; 
also and more especially of "The Widow 
Malone" so musically celebrated by Charles 
Lever : — 

"Did ye hear of the widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone, 

Alone ! 
Oh ! she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts, 
So lovely the widow Malone. 

Ohone ! 

So lovely the widow Malone. " 
That wonderful Irishman, Oliver Goldsmith, 
was recalled to memory because of the 
proximity of "The Deserted Village," and that 
holy man, St. Kieran, by the sacred ruins of 
Clonmacnoise, only nine miles away, where 
crumbled churches, round towers, crosses and 
inscriptions compel a pathetic reflection upon 



86 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

the learning, industry, piety, and glory of an 
age now shadowed in the dim recess of the 
centuries. 

Athlone is an anachronism. It belongs to an 
ancient order of things. It is a vision out of 
that haunting dream that we call the past. 
There are just a few specks of modernism upon 
it. I will remember long those winding streets 
and topsy-turvey alleys, the long Railway 
Bridge, the Barracks, the Old Castle, the 
salmon weir, and the boatmen casting for trout 
in the river. A grimy crew were unloading coal 
from a schooner recently arrived from Dublin 
via the Grand Canal. Looking into the faces 
of the men one could not tell whether they 
were Hottentot or Hibernian, but I took it for 
granted that there were white skins down 
somewhere beneath the coal dust, and was glad 
of the evidence that all Ireland does not burn 
peat. 

Athlone is properly proud of the vicinage of 
Lough Eee, with its romantic associations. It 
is an Irish Lake George, plus antiquities and 
myths. Enough has not yet been said about the 
lakes of Ireland. They are pearls in emerald 
settings. 



XII. ON TO SLIGO. 

Connaught is the great western province of 
Ireland. Mayo is the great Northwest County 
of Connaught. Ballyhaunis is a small town in 
Mayo County where I left the train for an 
afternoon's ramble in the country. It is a fair 
country to look upon, with gently sloping hills 
and green valleys freely patched with little 
lakes and streaked with threading rivers. 
Pasture and bog lands are plentiful. Farms 
are small but apparently fertile. Poverty is 
not abject, for the peasants are, I should say, 
as a class clean and industrious. 

Connaught types are interesting. There was 
the good priest with his carroty head and 
cheery face, of whom I ventured to ask 
directions. Said he, "What State are you 
from?" I was again pleased at being so 
quickly recognized as an American. I told him 
state and city, and to my surprise learned that 
he had once lived in Newark, New Jersey, 
himself. He spoke familiarly of streets, public 
buildings, churches and people, and there on 
the village street the Mayo priest and the 
Jersey dominie had a little love feast. An hour 



88 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

or so later I conversed with a farmer's wife 
who had spent eleven years in the United 
States — "though I don't look it now," said she. 
But she did look it, in spite of coarse shawl, 
patched skirt and care-drawn face. The 
American spirit is a light that cannot be hid 
under any bushel. It was in her soul and it 
flashed in manner and speech, though she had 
married a man of the soil and had gone back 
to the cabin and the potato patch. 

"Is this the road to Ballina?" I asked of an 
aged woman hobbling along at the cross road. 
"It's not," said she. "I suppose I will have to 
go on to the next turn," said I. "Ye will 
that," said she. Her replies were sharp and 
short. They snapped. They blocked conversa- 
tion. I had met another type. The preponder- 
ance of aged people in Ireland is a sorry 
spectacle and is of course related to the prob- 
lem of emigration. The young have quick ears 
and they hear the call ; they have brave hearts, 
strong hands and willing feet. They go. The 
old are not so. They must stay. This is the 
country whose population was cut in half in 
half a century. The number of persons now 
living in the United States of Irish birth or 
parentage is greater than the entire population 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 89 

of Ireland. The average age of emigrants is 
twenty years. Hundreds of these old people 
remaining at home are dependent upon the 
money sent by sons and daughters across the 
sea, but they are doomed to a lonely old age. 
My heart went out to the tottering woman at 
the cross roads. 

Another type soon appeared. There was 
just a fringe of thin white hair showing be- 
neath the rim of his antiquated derby hat. 
Between his lips was the stem of his beloved 
"dudheen. " One hand gripped a blackthorn 
while the other held a rope, the further end of 
which was tied to the hind leg of a huge 
porker, a rather nervous animal judging from 
the constant jerking of the aforesaid hind leg. 
The man, I judged, was a peaceable citizen, 
an "old timer," affable, though not especially 
talkative, and quite willing to submit to the 
kodaking ordeal. Then came the two towsie tots 
who called from the potato patch in eager en- 
treaty to have their pictures taken ; the young 
turf gatherer with her basket laden donkey, 
and the stout bodied laborer, who lamented the 
peasant farmer's hard lot, but agreed that con- 
ditions were not as bad as they used to be. All 
of which are but a few of the details of a pic- 



90 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

ture of rare charm and warm human interest. 

Sligo, "Capital of the Northwest," like Ath- 
lone and Limerick, is dim with the dust of 
centuries. It gives no evidence of ambition 
however rich it might be in experience. It is 
undisturbed by Twentieth Century sparkle 
and spirit. Round about are to be found 
some of Ireland's most interesting archaeo- 
logical remains and most varied scenery. 
"Like as the mountains are round about Jeru- 
salem," so the rugged hills encompass Sligo, 
forming a circle twenty miles or more in 
diameter, comprehending a wealth of woodland 
and water charms known as the Killarney of 
the North. Many weeks could be profitably 
employed amid these sylvan splendors, ram- 
bling, climbing, riding, hunting, fishing, golf- 
ing, exploring, writing, painting, according to 
taste, whim or talent. I met some English 
gentlemen at the hotel, one of whom was 
about to purchase an estate in the vicinity, 
declaring that there was no place equal to it in 
England. He was a sportsman, and had trav- 
elled the Kingdom thoroughly. 

In the city are to be seen the Cathedral, the 
Bishop's Palace, the old Gothic Abbey in 
mournful ruins, the monument of O'Connor 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 91 

Sligo, dating back to the first quarter of the 
17th century, and such other historic mark- 
ings as so ancient a town may be depended 
upon to possess. Mr. Gallagher, boatman down 
by the old stone bridge, Mr. William Galla- 
gher, with second g silent, bearded, bronzed, 
wrinkled, blue eyed, hoary headed, staunch 
Catholic, determined Nationalist would, for the 
pleasure of it and ten shillings, introduce me 
to the pristine glories of Lough Gill. Again, 
there was "nothin' loike it" in all Ireland. 
Other obliging gentlemen there were who 
would be exultingly happy to pilot the traveler 
to the megalithic curiosities at Carrowmore. 
Or would it be a venture to the glens and crags 
of Knocknarea? Alas, that there is so much to 
see and so little time in which to see it! 
Ulysses probably uttered the same lament 
after his twenty years of traveling. 



XIII. UP IN ULSTER. 

Across County Leitrim, and in the very heart 
of Fermanagh lies happy Enniskillen. It is 
forty-eight miles from Sligo. It is also about 
four centuries away. Enniskillen is exhilarat- 
ing. I had seen so much of decay and depression, 
so much of wrack wrought by the despoiling 
hand of time and by the destructions of war — 
ruins, ruins everywhere ; r^uins of walls, 
houses, mills, castles, forts, towers, churches, 
monasteries, abbeys, monuments, bridges, — a 
civilization in ashes ! Beauty bedraggled ! 
Such was Western Ireland; a Samson shorn 
and blind — ah, the pity of it all! But Ennis- 
killen is not in ashes, backwardness is not her 
fashion, and her beauty is not faded. There 
was a style and throb of things I had not seen 
since leaving Cork, — hence the exhilaration. 
Ulster, the great Northern province, is Ire- 
land's crown of prosperity. 

Like a great blue sash, Lough Erne lies 
across County Fermanagh from northwest to 
southeast. Enniskillen is a silver buckle glis- 
tening in the folds of the sash, an ornament 
far famed for its modest beauty. It is 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 93 

an Irish Interlaken. Some say there is 
no lovelier spot in the British Isles. The 
region abounds in places, objects and scenes of 
peculiar interest. Devenish Island, now in 
ruins, was for many generations a center of 
learning and dovotion, St. Molaise having 
flourished there as far back as the sixth 
century. At the end of Lower Lough Erne is 
the town famed throughout many lands for its 
ceramic creations, the village of Belleek. The 
Pottery is kept busy trying to supply the 
demand for the exquisitely delicate and irri- 
descent Beleek china, which was originally 
made of clay found in the vicinity, is most 
artistically fashioned into a great variety of 
forms, and possesses a marvellous lustre. 

A hill near the station at Enniskillen has 
been transformed into a beautiful park, with 
gracefully winding paths, luxuriant herbage 
and pretty gardens. At the apex stands a 
lofty monument in honor of Sir Lowry Cole, 
a Peninsula hero, and near by a clock tower 
as a Plunkett memorial. The view of the 
distant landscape with its nestling lakes is 
superb. In nature's library it is an edition de 
luxe. It is the most — there comes that superl- 
ative again ! From the park entrance Townhall 



94 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Street curves away toward the river, a street 
wide and clean, and with an array of shops, 
hotels, banks and churches not excelled surely 
in any town of the size of Enniskillen in any 
country. 

Enniskillen men have in the past given full 
proof of the quality of their soldiership. You 
may find in the Parish Church standards borne 
with honor at Waterloo. Their services in the 
Protestant cause made them feared of the 
Jacobites. This is the country of heroes. Before 
it became possessed of the English, Enniskillen 
was the stronghold of the doughty Macguires, 
chieftains of Fermanagh. With such associa- 
tions, and with such natural endowments, En- 
niskillen cannot fail to interest and to charm 
the tourist. It is a place in which to be happy. 
It makes the kind of an impression that one de- 
lights to cherish. It invites to rest. It soothes 
while it inspires. Enniskillen, one cannot for- 
get, is up in Ulster. 



XIV. A LOOK AT LONDONDERRY. 

Cutting the corners of Tyrone, Donegal and 
Derry Counties, the Great Northern train sped 
through a smiling Eden, and for miles along 
the river Foyle, to Londonderry, one of the 
most picturesque cities in Ireland. It is not, 
however, an Irish city. It is Irish neither in 
appearance, in spirit, nor in method of gov- 
ernment. The Honorable Irish Society of Lon- 
don holds the charter, collects ground rents, 
and determines the officiary. It has been so 
for nearly 300 years. 

The first thing to do at Londonderry is to 
mount the old city wall, the top of which is 
now a popular promenade about a mile around. 
The wall was built in 1609 at a cost of but 
little over $41,000. It was evidently built to 
stay, and is apparently as solid now as in the 
terrible year 1689. That was the year of the 
most famous siege in English or Irish history, 
the Siege of Londonderry, although the Roman 
Catholic historian may refuse to consider it in 
that light, calling it a "blockade" rather 
than a "siege." It is so represented in Sul- 
livan's "The Story of Ireland." Greene 



96 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

calls it a siege turned into a blockade. 
Call it what you will, the memory of 
the event hangs about the ancient wall today 
as a mystic token of that spirit of heroism 
which has redeemed the grossness of human 
nature in all lands, and nowhere more tri- 
umphantly than on Hibernia's shores. 

The most conspicuous object on the wall is 
the great Doric column, 90 feet high, sur- 
mounted by a figure representing the Rev. 
George Walker, the hero of the siege. There 
he stands in noble pose, Bible in hand, and 
pointing a prophetic finger in the direction of 
Lough Foyle, whence relief finally came. 
There are a number of guns still planted in the 
bastions, one of which having done consider- 
able execution, and having made much noise 
in doing it, is stamped "Roaring Meg." I was 
very happy to think that Meg's roaring days 
are over. I patted the smooth metal of the old 
gun with curious fingers, and then went over 
to the Cathedral especially to look at the shell 
that came over the wall during the siege, 
loaded with conditions of surrender. That shot 
was wasted. Surrender? Not though famine 
and pestilence were decimating their numbers, 
and horse, dog and cat flesh had become their 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 97 

best food. Surrender? Not while the Rev. 
George Walker could commune with the Eter- 
nal, preach the Word of Life, and keep the 
spark of hope alive in their breasts. No, they 
would not surrender, and the siege ran on, and 
on, and on, for 105 days, and then King Wil- 
liam's merchantmen broke the boom in Lough 
Foyle and brought provisions to the famished 
city, — provisions and victory! So "No Sur- 
render" is the motto of Londonderry. 

There is more to Derry of course than that 
old wall with its historic gates, bastions, guns 
and monuments. There are two cathedrals, for 
instance, several famous colleges, streets re- 
minding one of busy Broadway, mammoth 
stores with alluring displays of linen and lace, 
and factories employing thousands of men and 
women. The city is beautifully situated upon 
the Foyle, and rises from the river somewhat 
as Albany rises from the Hudson. Trans- 
atlantic steamers carry many passengers to and 
from this port. It is a commodious harbor 
lined with spacious quays. Near the Shipquay 
gate stands, or did stand, the Guildhall, the 
architectural gem of the city. It was destroyed 
by fire on the 19th of April, 1908, but when I 
saw it three months later, the square clock 



98 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

tower stood forth above the ruins in blackened, 
yet impressive solitude. 

As St. Fin Barre is related to the history of 
Cork, so is St. Columba related to the history 
of Londonderry. In the year 546 the pious 
man instituted his abbey at the "Place of 
Oaks." Around it spread the settlement and 
out of the settlement grew the city. It was 
the age of learning in Ireland. Kings and 
nobles from every country in Europe hied them 
hither to sit at the feet of sages. But for 
tribal animosities, Danish incursions, Norman 
conquests and Tudor desecrations Ireland 
might have been known through the centuries 
as the University of the World rather than as 
a school for scandal. Every old city in Ireland, 
like Londonderry, is a pathetic reminder of 
that glorious destiny to which Erin at one 
time seemed appointed. The country of the 
Bleeding Heart, should have been the land of 
the Crimson Rambler. 



XV. POBTRUSH AND THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY. 

Portrush, by an obvious pun, is a port to 
which thousands rush for their summer pleas- 
ures, their vacation outing and sight seeing 
It is steadily increasing in popularity. The 
summer population is a generous mixture of 
Scotch, English, Irish and American, with a dash 
of Italian organ grinder and Armenian ven- 
dor. Hotels and boarding houses furnish com- 
fortable accommodations at prices that would 
bankrupt Atlantic City. Store windows pre- 
sent the usual pleasure resort display, and the 
stores and shops are usually filled with eager 
purchasers. The main thoroughfares are 
crowded during the evening with prom- 
enaders, and groups of visitors chatting, 
laughing, singing, sfevtarking, quite in 
holiday style. Here was the first scene of 
hilarity I had witnessed in Ireland. Verily it 
is good to hear the hearty laugh and the merry 
song. I had come to feel that the proverbial 
jollity and good humor of Michael and Bridget 
was rather proverbial than apparent. The peo- 
ple of the South and West had impressed me as 



100 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

being serious, solemn and even gloomy — ex- 
cept in the attempt to extract a six pence by 
some witticism in sale or beggary. The 
"perennial supply" is surely a myth. At 
Portrush, however, there was merriment and 
music to spare. An approach toward rowdy- 
ism on the part of some gay young fellows was 
instantly checked by the watchful constabu- 
lary. The current of life was running strong. 
A dance was in full swing in a large hall. A 
theatrical performance was being given in an 
open air theatre down on the strand. A 
Stentor of righteousness was stationed at a 
street corner preaching repentance to a crowd 
of respectful listeners, and reminding them in 
unequivocal language of the judgment to come. 
Thousands of people were gathered about an 
open square in the centre of which was a large 
band stand. A concert was in progress, and 
the music was of a most excellent order, as the 
constant applause indicated. 

All the essential features of a popular up-to- 
date coast resort are to be found at Portrush, 
and I doubt not that many good folks find 
health and happiness amid the festivities of the 
town and in the ocean breezes that sweep the 
rocky shores. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 101 

Not far from the station and in seeming con- 
trast to the holiday gayety stands the solemn 
obelisk erected to the memory of Dr. Adam 
Clark, author, preacher, missionary, linguist, 
commentator, great scholar, an illustrious 
Irishman well deserving a monument. The 
expense of the memorial was met by 
contributions from Methodists and friends 
in all parts of the world. It stands on 
a natural elevation, in an enclosure adjoining 
the Memorial Church, and a short distance 
back from the sidewalk. The inscription 
reads : — 

In everlasting remembrance of Dr. Adam Clark 
Natus, circitur 1760. Obit 1832. 

Servant of the Most High, who in preach- 
ing the Gospel with great labors and Apos- 
tolic grace through more than 50 years, 
showed to myraids the way of salvation, and 
by his commentary on the Holy Scriptures and 
other works of piety and learning yet speaks 
to the passing generation. Soli Gloria Deo. 

Any country in the world might be proud of 
a man like Dr. Clark. His genius was as broad 
and unquestioned as that of Edmund Burke or 
Daniel O'Connell and was consecrated to still 
nobler ends. The rapturous plaudits of one's 



102 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

countrymen do not follow the evangelist and 
the scholar as they do the statesman, the re- 
former, the orator and the soldier, but judg- 
ing according to the length of service, the 
quality of work, the breadth, originality and 
accuracy of his scholarship, the value of his 
contributions to the world's religious thought 
and knowledge, the strong consistency of his 
character, the mighty uplift that went forth 
from his life to the lives of others, his daring 
devotion to the principles of the everlasting 
kingdom, — who can say that Adam Clark was 
not the peer in greatness, if not in renown, to 
his illustrious fellow countrymen and contem- 
poraries Lord Nelson and the Duke of Welling- 
ton? The comparison is a bold one, I know, 
but it was one of the impressions that came as 
I gazed thoughtfully at that modest granite 
shaft at Portrush. Many Irishmen have 
achieved greatness and Dr. Clark was not the 
least of them. 

An electric tramway, the first to be built in 
the British Isles or elsewhere, runs along the 
coast from Portrush to the Giant's Causeway, 
a distance of about eight miles. The ride may 
be counted as one of the memorable experiences 
of a lifetime. It lies along the edge of the 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 103 

rugged cliffs rising high from the sea and af- 
fording a distant view across the waters. The 
white of the chalk exposures forms a charm- 
ing color scheme with the blues and grays of 
the water below and the rich green of the 
verdure above. The incessant waves have 
chiseled, bored and slashed the cliffs into fan- 
tastic outlines, curious caves, tunnels and 
arches. The elements have there elabor- 
ated a wild architecture beyond the reach of 
all canons of art, mightier in its sweep, and 
grander in execution than that of famed 
cathedrals of Spain and Italy. 

Dunluce Castle crowns a rocky jrecipice 
about half way between Portrush and Giant's 
Causeway. Considering its size, location and 
general aspect as viewed from a short distance, 
it is the most astounding castle ruin I have 
ever seen, not excepting the storied piles of the 
Rhine. Separated from the mainland by a 
deep and dangerous gully, the deserted walls 
linger on the cheerless summit a hundred feet 
above the pounding sea, towers and parapets 
forming a sombre silhouette against a sullen 
sky. During the 16th Century Dunluce was 
in its glory. That many brilliant and many 
tragic events connect themselves with those 



104 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

spacious halls and overhanging chambers, is 
a safe conjecture amply substantiated in his- 
tory. The Castle once withstood a siege for 
nine months. It was finally abandcned, fell 
into decay, and has not been occupied for over 
two hundred years. Today it seems a realis- 
tic picture adorning an ancient tale of some 
wonderland of dreams. 

"Don't be expecting too much,'' said a 
cautious young Scotchman as we approached 
the Giant's Causeway. My highest expecta- 
tions were more than realized, however, and 
I am somewhat at a loss to account for the oc- 
casional expressions of disappointment at this 
astounding miracle of nature. It may be that 
the pictures of the Causeway are misleading 
and that the tourist expects to behold a tower- 
ing mass rising like a mountain toward the 
clouds, dominating the coast and landscape. 
Instead, he must go down, far down a rocky 
path from lofty cliff to low shore before it is 
possible to view the phenomenon. But there 
it is, the product of forces transcending the 
comprehension of mortals, so ancient as to 
antedate human history, and to remain prob- 
ably after man with his little burden of hopes 
and fears shall have passed from the earth. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 105 

It is a great group of 40,000 stone pillars, from 
one to one hundred feet in height, geometric- 
ally shaped, pentagons and hexagons prevail- 
ing, with tops sometimes concave and some- 
times convex — a wonderful formation of 
basalt, the result of the cooling contracting 
and cracking of a lava stream. There are a 
number of large caves in the vicinity of pecul- 
iar scenic and geological interest, one of them 
450 feet long, which in calm weather may be 
entered in a boat. The various columns and 
recesses are given names usually in associa- 
tion with certain objects they are supposed to 
resemble. A minute description of the whole 
scene would involve a too lengthy if not quite 
impossible task. 

Having paid my little fee, a blessed privilege 
conferred upon the public by a benevolent 
syndicate, I passed through what is known as 
the Giant's Gate and stood facing the amphi- 
theatre. Here the beetling cliff takes the form 
of a crescent and imbedded in its curving side 
is that line of columns known as the Giant's 
Organ. The wind was making music fortissimo 
that day and my imagination was quite equal 
to the crowding of the amphitheatre with 
music-loving giants, applauding the recital of 



106 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

a master. I climbed oat over the slippery 
pillars to the water's edge. The gale threat- 
ened to carry me into the sea. An occasional 
dash of rain swept down over the precipice and 
the moaning of the deep and the fretting of 
the waves accentuated the weird and awful 
grandeur of the spectacle. I was not sorry 
that the wind howled and the rain splashed 
and the waters boiled for the effect was a 
magnificent approach to the terrible. It was 
giant weather at the Giant's Causeway. The 
scene was like a Shakespearian tragedy or a 
Veretschagen war painting, both fascinating 
and startling. Those prudent people who only 
travel when the sun shines do not know the 
sweetest secrets of this moody little world. 



XVI. ANTRIM, THE STRONGHOLD OF PROTESTANISM. 

County Antrim occupies the Northeast 
corner of the rhomboidal island, and is the 
stronghold of Protestantism and prosperity. 
There Protestants outnumber Catholics three 
to one. There homes are happy, farms are 
large, fields are grain laden, cities are clean, 
factories are busy, schools are plentiful, 
churches are popular, and the people intelli- 
gent, industrious and contented. The journey 
to Belfast across the full length of this favored 
country gives abundant evidence of these 
pleasing conditions. The American traveler 
is expected to be profoundly interested in the 
announcement that this is the ancestral home 
of the McKinley's. William McKinley, Presi- 
dent, was the son of William who was the son 
of James who was the son of David, whose 
father emigrated from the village of Conagher 
in the year 1743. From the father of David to 
the second William was a period long enough 
to work a most perfect Americanization, yet I 
remember having heard a supposedly intelli- 
gent and well-to-do American citizen declare, 



108 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

during McKinley's first Presidential campaign, 
that he would never vote for "that Irishman." 
Bigotry and prejudice are not confined to any 
one country but lurks beneath all flags. 

The town of Antrim is situated about 21 
miles from Belfast, on the little river known 
as Six Mile Water near its junction with Lough 
Neagh, the largest lake in the British Isles. 
Near Antrim is the best preserved of all the 
old Round Towers of Ireland. It is 92 feet 
high, 50 feet around at the base, and has a 
conical top. It stands now within the en- 
closure of a most beautiful estate, the entrance 
to which is an embowered roadway thickly 
fringed with laurel, rhododendron and ivy. 
My jarvey, a bright lad of fifteen, and by all 
means the most satisfactory one I had met in 
my travels, waited at the gate explaining that 
he was not allowed to drive in. Thus it hap- 
pened that I stood alone in the honored pres- 
ence. Solitude has its compensations, and 
companionship has its distractions. Erect 
upon the greensward like a gray-cowled friar, 
tall, solemn, silent, solitary, the tower is an 
interesting object to behold. It is one of the 
oldest of the 70 such edifices now to be found 
in Ireland, and must therefore date back to 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 109 

the 9th Century. There is an opening in the 
side toward the north about ten feet from the 
ground, through which it is believed an en- 
trance was wont to be made by means of a 
ladder. Speculations, wide and wild some of 
them, have been advanced from time to time 
to account for the origin of these peculiar 
structures. It is romantic indeed to consider 
them the rude expressions of ancient Persian 
or Egyptian superstitions, to connect them 
with Oriental symbolism or with Buddhistic 
or Druidic ceremonialism, or to view them as 
deserted temples of science, the relics of an 
astronomical age, but it is much easier to 
fancy the members of a Christian ecclesiastical 
community scurrying up the ladder and pull- 
ing the ladder in after them at the approach 
of a band of Norse marauders. That they 
would have been comparatively safe in such 
a place and that they occasionally needed such 
protection is no conjecture ; and the same 
building would have served admirably as a 
bell, signal and watch tower. They were thus 
used probably for several centuries. 

In Act II. of Bernard Shaw's "John Bull's 
Other Island" occurs this dialogue: — 

Father Dempsey. D'ye see the top o' the 



110 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Roun' Tower there? That's an antiquity 
worth lookin' at. 

Broadbent (deeply interested). Have you 
any theory as to what the Round Towers were 
for? 

Father Dempsey (a little offended). A 
theory? Me! (Theories are connected in his 
mind with the late Professor Tyndall and with 
scientific scepticism generally; also, perhaps, 
with the view that the Round Towers are 
phallic symbols). 

Cornelius (remonstrating). Father Dempsey 
is the priest of the parish, Mr. Broadbent. 
What would he be doing with a theory? 

Father Dempsey (with gentle emphasis). I 
have a knowledge of what the Roun' Towers 
were, if that's what you mean. They are the 
forefingers of the early Church, pointing us all 
to God." 

Verily knowledge is better than theory, and 
Father Dempsey 's explanation is good enough 
for the most of us. 

It may be seen from the map that Lough 
Neagh is an extensive body of water touch- 
ing the shores of five counties, is saddle shaped 
on two sides, is fed by ten streams and throws 
its full flood northward to the Atlantic by way 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. Ill 

of the River Bann. It has an area of 153 
square miles and its greatest depth is slightly 
over 100 feet. It is unusually free of islands 
and its shores are low and marshy. It is 
therefore scenically scant of those features 
that appeal most eloquently to the lover of 
variety, but it is duly celebrated in story, and 
like everything Irish is entwined in folk lore 
and legend. I had a gladsome spin with my 
little jarvey through the cozy village and out 
to the lake shore, but I failed, of course, to 
see what Moore's fisherman saw: — 

"Kound Towers of other days 
In the waves beneath him shining." 



XVII. THE FORD AT THE SAND-BANK. 

Belfast ! I have long fancied that word, and 
have considered the city fortunate to possess 
such a name. It is both robust and vibrant sug- 
gesting the piccolo and the violin, as well as 
cymbals and the drum. It blends two ancient 
words, the one meaning ford and the other 
sand-bank. Its etymology no longer fits con- 
ditions at the mouth of the Lagan, where 
sand-banks have given place to long quays, 
large docks, strong bridges, and the deep 
Victoria Channel running far out into Belfast 
Lough. 

Three hundred years ago Sir Arthur Chi- 
chester brought over his Devonshire colonists 
to plant the foundations of what is now the 
most thriving city in Ireland. He probably 
found little of value when he arrived, for the 
demons of conflict had been rioting there for 
centuries, during which time communities were 
established but to be ravaged and castles were 
built but to be destroyed. In recent years 
peace has been doing her more perfect work, 
and now Belfast is a populous city, beautiful 
and busy. To realize how busy a place it is, 
one has but to consider a list of its leading 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 113 

industries. The whole world knows of the 
primacy of Belfast in the manufacture of 
linen. Broad fields of waving flax are to be 
seen everywhere in the farming districts of 
Ulster, and it is a matter of unfailing interest 
to observe their luxuriance and then to think 
of the process of cutting, treating, spinning, 
weaving, bleaching, etc., until those bending 
blades of fibre have been transformed by the 
legerdemain of our wonderful modern indus- 
trial and commercial machinery and methods 
into soft and snowy articles for the ward- 
robes of great lords and fine ladies. The busi- 
ness represents a value of about sixty million 
dollars a year, and Belfast is the trade centre. 
Long strips of bleaching linen stretched out 
on the clean grass are observed as the train 
nears the metropolis. Miles of the material 
is thus exposed and one naturally drops into 
the mood of fanciful conjecturing, for instance, 
as to the number of times it could all be wrap- 
ped around the earth, or how many billions 
of pocket handkerchiefs could be made from 
the lot. Of course there are hundreds of mills 
and factories in and near Belfast devoted to 
the various processes involved in this vast in- 
dustry. 

Many other lines of manufacturing are also 



114 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

conspicuously represented. The great ship- 
yards ring with the music of many hammers 
and blaze with the light of many forges as 
the monster turbines are fashioned for the 
conquest of the seas. Ten thousand men are 
employed in the Harland and Wolff yards, 
and Workman and Clarke carry a force of 
three thousand. 

Belfast can also boast of the largest rope 
factory in the British Isles. Then there are 
large tobacco factories, iron foundries, dis- 
tilleries, breweries, tanneries, saw mills, flour 
mills, and scores of other establishments turn- 
ing out such diversified products as agricul- 
tural implements, matches, ginger ale, bacon 
and fertilizing compounds. All of this neces- 
sitates a forest of chimneys, miles of bare brick 
walls, volumes of curling smoke, odors well 
assorted and distributed, and the usual disad- 
vantages of such employments. Yet Belfast 
is as fairly entitled to distinction for beauty as 
for business. I had gathered from frequent 
conversations that all Irishmen are proud of 
Belfast. I heard its praises sounded at Kil- 
larney, Limerick and Sligo. It is justly the 
metropolis of the north and the boast of the 
whole island. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 115 

In the centre of Donegall Square stands the 
new City Hall. I wonder if there is a hand- 
somer one in the Kingdom? I wonder if 
there is a better one on the Continent or in the 
United States in any city of less than four 
hundred thousand inhabitants? For com- 
parison in population we may think of San 
Francisco, Cincinnati and Pittsburg, all of 
which are smaller, and of Buffalo and Cleve- 
land, both of which are larger. Belfast 
stands number sixty in the list of big cities. 
Its City Hall I am quite sure will bear the test 
of any fair comparison. It is built in quadran- 
gular form on five acres of ground. The 
material is Portland stone richly carved. 
There are corner towers 120 feet high and a 
great central dome, somewhat resembling that 
of our nation's Capitol, 175 feet high. The 
style is Classical Renaissance. Gardens, artis- 
tically landscaped, containing a variety of rare 
and beautiful plants and flowers, and appro- 
priate statuary, frame the architectural pic- 
ture. The cost of grounds and buildings was 
almost $1,500,000. 

To correct the notion that Ireland is but the 
abode of wretchedness, the home of ignorance 
and poverty, the mistaken one should board 



116 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

a tram and ride through some of those beauti- 
ful Belfast avenues. For example he may 
start at the Albert Memorial, a Venetian 
Gothic clock tower 143 feet high, and ride 
along High Street, Castle Place and Donegall 
Place to the City Hall, continuing through 
Donegall Square, Wellington Place, passing 
what is claimed to be the most complete Young 
Men's Christian Association Institute in the 
world, to College Square where the Cooke 
monument will be an object of interest; thence 
out along Great Victoria Street to the Queen's, 
Presbyterian and Methodist Colleges, and the 
Botanical Gardens. The ride will cost but a 
penny or two and the passenger will have 
seen more evidences of wealth and culture 
than can be seen for a larger fare in the 
majority of our American cities. Those col- 
leges and museums mean that the old love of 
learning still exists. Those monuments and 
parks indicate the strength of civic pride, and 
those beautiful churches show that Christ's 
Holy Religion is still as it has been for cen- 
turies a dominant factor in Irish affairs. 
Should such a ride or walk be taken on Sun- 
day morning no store will be seen open, no 
saloon will be doing business. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 117 

In Belfast Sabbath laws are actually re- 
spected. The saloons are allowed to open, 
however, at 2 p. m. and are at once filled with 
zealous members of the Grand Army of Im- 
bibers. I watched the mobilizing process for 
a few minutes and was astonished at the 
alacrity and precision displayed. No order 
was given, but men seemed to spring up from 
the sidewalks as if by magic and to converge 
on the bar rooms as if by machinery. It was 
2 p. m. in Belfast, on Sunday. 



XVIII. THE HOLY HILLS OF AEMAGH. 

There may be more pleasing combinations 
of colors than green, white and red, even 
though we find them in some national banners 
such as the flags of Italy, Bulgaria and 
Mexico. But when the green is in the 
rich field, and the white is the bleach- 
ing linen, and the red is the brick wall of the 
factory where hundreds earn their daily bread, 
they appeal to both sense and sentiment. So 
it is again from Belfast to Portadown, the lat- 
ter a prosperous growing community ten 
thousand strong, about twenty-five miles from 
the metropolis and ten miles from Armagh. 

Armagh had seemed to me rather like a 
period in Church History than a place on the 
map. The name has a far-away sound and 
is o'ergrown with ecclesiastical associations. 
Seizing the excuse for another jaunting car 
ride I engaged my jarvey, a husky young fel- 
low, broad shouldered and full cheeked, the 
traditional "broth of a boy" I suppose, but 
lacking absolutely the traditional sense of 
humor. He was about as serious a proposi- 
tion as was ever proposed; or was it humor 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 119 

beyond my comprehension? At any rate, my 
quest for a genuine Irish joke was fruitless. 
But the ride ! O, that was grand. The road 
was as hard as a miser's heart and as smooth 
as ivory. Ivy-grown walls, hawthorn hedges, 
leafy oaks, gently curving hills bedecked with 
green of thick grass and gold of grain, pretty 
cottages, nestling villages, sauntering lads 
and lasses, and red jacketed gallants from the 
garrison, — rural peace, evening quiet, and 
vernal beauty everywhere ! 

I found Armagh to be a quaint old town, 
with helter-skelter streets at steep grades and 
sharp angles, yet with a grave aspect of an- 
cient dignity. As everybody is supposed to 
know, Armagh is the head See of both the 
Church of Ireland and the Roman Catholic 
Church in Ireland. As the home of two Pri- 
mates, one of them a Cardinal, it is highly 
favored spot in the eyes of Churchmen today. 
Cardinal Logue's recent visit to the United 
States was a widely advertised event and re- 
sulted in enhancing his reputation as a genial 
gentleman and popular leader. The presence 
of such a man would be a valuable asset to 
any community and Armagh is happy in him. 
But Armagh is more especially blessed in the 



120 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

memory of the labors there of the greatest 
personality in all Irish history. He was man- 
hood at flood tide, zeal at fever heat. The 
world has seldom known a better man, and 
such men belong not to one country but to 
the world. Irishmen do well to honor him, 
others do not well in leaving him unhonored. 
He had the fibre and faith of St. Paul and 
St. Peter, and his name is worthy of association 
with that illustrious list in the eleventh chapter 
of Hebrews, the "Westminster Abbey of the 
New Testament." His was the high poten- 
tiality of courage consecrated. He was pure, 
gentle, strong, ambitious, learned, eloquent, 
relentless, purposeful, resourceful, indefati- 
gable, bold, brilliant, diplomatic, full souled, 
heavenly minded, inspired, — and he captured 
Ireland for Christ. 

St. Patrick arrived in Ireland in 432. Tem- 
peramentally reverential, the natives were 
stirred by the fervid proclamations of God's 
love and the Savior's sacrifice and abandoned 
their Druid altars for the way of the Cross. 
The career of this God-appointed man as told 
in varied versions stirs the blood, and storms 
the batteries of indifference and selfishness. 
I revere him not as the patron saint of Ireland 
for the patronage of saints is problematical, 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 121 

but as the foremost missionary since the 
martyrdom of Paul. 

An Irish chieftain gave evidence of the sin- 
cerity of his conversion by presenting to the 
holy man a wide circling green clad hill in the 
very heart of his kingdom, upon which to es- 
tablish a place of worship. There today, the 
true lineal descendant of the original, stands 
the old Cathedral of Armagh. It has never 
been considered an architectural rival of 
Lincoln or Canterbury, but among all the 
churches of the British Isles this ancient 
sanctuary bears unique and positive distinc- 
tion. It is cruciform in shape, and has a mas- 
sive tower 110 feet high, from which the 
steeple has been removed. The iron gate of 
the close was locked when I arrived before it, 
but a few inquiries disclosed the abode of the 
care-taker, whom I humbly importuned for the 
privilege of admission. He opened the gate 
with a heavy key and a heavier grunt. He 
answered all questions in grunts. Ho grunted 
his way along the smooth path to the west 
door of the church, opened the door and pain- 
fully sank into a chair like a man with the 
rheumatism. All questions were answered in 
monosyllabic grunts. He was a paragon of 



122 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Irish civility uncivilized. Alas, again, for 
those fond ideals of a national suavity, for 
those bubbling springs of good nature that re- 
fuse to bubble. I was free, however, to roam 
about nave, aisles, transepts, and choir, to note 
the pointed arches, moulded columns, perpen- 
dicular windows, memorials, standards, and 
effigies of illustrious primates. There is no 
silence like the silence of the sanctuary. It 
seems to be the very essence of sanctity, the 
inner soul of which carved stone and stained 
glass is the corporeal habiliment. Such silences 
are more eloquent than sermons. Before them 
irreverence cows abashed and ashamed. They 
are inarticulated appeals from the vast in- 
finitudes of Truth. In the venerable Cathe- 
dral on old Rath-daire tender messages are de- 
livered without aid of preacher, choir or or- 
gan. Go thou and listen. 

The new cathedral over which Cardinal 
Logue presides is also lifted up on high and 
may be seen from a great distance. The ap- 
proach is a long flight of steps made of white 
limestone. The affect is like a Dore illus- 
tration of the Apocalypse. One may even fancy 
the hovering angels in cloud draperies en- 
circling the twin spires. "Ara Coeli" the 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 123 

situation is appropriately called. I ascended 
the terraced steps and stood for a while ad- 
miring the graceful spires with their surmount- 
ing crosses 210 feet above me. Entering the 
Cathedral I was at once impressed with the 
richness of the interior and the profuseness of 
its mosaics. From floor to ceiling were 
mosaic portrayals of Biblical scenes, with 
martyrs and Irish saints in mural multitudes. 
In the pulpit ornamentation St. Patrick and 
St. Bridget keep company with the evangel- 
ists. The marble altar is of imposing propor- 
tions and exquisite workmanship. Behind it 
is a marvelous marble screen 30 feet wide, 36 
feet high upon which is a vivid Crucifixion 
scene. A beautiful, costly, imposing edifice is 
the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Armagh. It 
was commenced in 1840, and was consecrated in 
1904 with elaborate ceremonies. In the glitter 
of its marble, in all the shining glory of its 
newness it shadows forth the unfading charm 
of that religion brought to Erin a millennium 
and a half ago by a Gallic zealot. 

Armagh has a parable in its two cathe- 
drals, both commanding supreme positions, the 
one venerable with an honorable old age, the 
other mighty in a fresh strength — a parable of 



124 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

the persistency of truth however opposed or 
dimly understood, a parable of the re- 
juvenescence of Christ's Kingdom, a parable of 
the Kingdom's sure destiny to occupy all the 
hills and to flood all the valleys with the light 
of its peace. 

"0 king, there is indeed a flame lighted on 
yonder hill which if it be not put out tonight 
will never be quenched in Erin" — memorable 
words recorded of the Druid priest as he 
watched the gleam of the Paschal fire kindled 
by St. Patrick and his little band of mission- 
aries on the Hill of Slane. On Tara Hill a 
srreat Daeran festival was in progress. It is a** 
oft told story, yet well worth repeating, of the 
summoning of the Christians to appear before 
the king, and of St. Patrick's bravery and suc- 
cess in proclaiming his propaganda, making 
converts on the spot, and then the long long 
years of his toils and travels, and reputed 
miracles, until on a certain 17th of March he 
was summoned to appear before the King 
Eternal. It is a story that grows vivid in the 
atmosphere of Armagh. 

I have seen the rainbow in the high heavens, 
I have seen it hanging over Niagara's gorge, 
I have seen it in the dashing spray of the break- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 125 

ing wave. I shall not say where the colors 
were brightest, but everywhere the law of re- 
fraction is the same and where the rainbow is 
there light must be. Superstition has done its 
meanest work with the memory of St. Pat- 
rick, but amid the associations of Armagh the 
splendor of the clear light of reality is upon 
it and lo, the curled colors of a refulgent life. 
The works of Patricius do follow him. 
Robert Louis Stevenson was known asa" lover 
of lovely words." Lovely deeds are lovelier. 
In this mood of appreciation one might linger 
long at this little town of the holy hills, and 
find comfort to his soul. 

Mention could be made too of the library, 
a most excellent one with over 20,000 volumes 
and many ancient documents of value ; the 
observatory, the seminary, the convent, for 
Armagh is no mean city in the number of its 
academic advantages. The jarvey was particu- 
lar to point out the palace of the Archbishop, 
an elegant residence indeed with extensive and 
beautiful grounds without, handsome furnish- 
ings and rare paintings within. A selfish man 
might envy the Bishop his home and his 
honors. 

Two miles distant is ancient Emania, where 



126 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

for centuries before the dawn of the Christian 
era Ulster kings held court, and which was 
originally established by the good queen from 
whom Armagh takes its high sounding name. 
Many other places and things there are in 
this locality of uncommon interest, but. it was 
not for me to dwell among their charms. The 
further the date of my visit to Armagh re- 
cedes, the greater the joy of the memory of 
it — a good test of values. 



XIX. WHERE WINDS THE BOYNE. 

Drogheda, on the Boyne four miles from the 
sea, thirty-two miles from Dublin, two and a 
half times as far from Belfast, has a name 
highly distinguished in Irish History, is com- 
mercially important, and is an interesting 
place to visit. Several parliaments have been 
held there. There Cromwell butchered his 
enemies in the name of the Lord. At the be- 
ginning of this story allusion was made to 
Richard II, who declared, in Shakespearian 
paraphrase, "We will make for Ireland pres- 
ently;" It was even there at Drogheda that the 
proud monarch received the submission of 
Irish chiefs. Long before that the alert Nor- 
mans built a strong bridge over the Boyne at 
that strategic point, and in ante-Norman days 
the Danes were strongly intrenched in the 
town. One has a right to expect antiquities at 
Drogheda. They are there, old walls, historic 
gates, abbey ruins, et cetera. But Drogheda 
is no funeral urn. There are great viaducts, 
noble bridges, a busy harbor with well laden 
ships slipping to and fro in the ceaseless shut- 
tle of commerce. 



128 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Those Americans who plan to go from Dub- 
lin to Belfast at a jump, thinking there is noth- 
ing between, may be helpless victims of the 
nation's jumping habit, else it is clear that 
their judgment has jumped the track of reason. 
Yet, with apologies, it was not for Drogheda's 
sake primarily that I had included the city in 
my itinerary. Drogheda is the starting point 
for one of the most interesting and inspiring 
day trips, I verily believe, in all the world. I 
am sure it is so to those who admire natural 
scenery characterized by an appealing rich- 
ness rather than by awful grandeur, who feel 
the heart throb of the soil once wet with the 
blood of heroes, and who appreciate antiqui- 
ties that make the most ancient memorials of 
our land seem modern by comparison — and 
this not in the misty Orient but in the little 
green island that helps John Bull bear the 
budget of his mighty empire. 

The River Boyne is not remarkable among 
rivers for width, depth, volume or length, but 
it is a pretty stream running through a fertile 
valley. It is about seventy miles long, and in 
its crystal current the lively salmon flashes and 
splashes, often jumping clear out of the water. 
Queer, skin covered, oval shaped boats or 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 129 

coracles of the most primitive fashion are still 
to be seen. Practically the whole course of 
the river abounds in mythological, legendary 
and historic associations. The very name of 
the stream commemorates the tragic death of a 
princess, beautiful of course, who was drowned 
in its waters nobody knows how long ago. 
They called her Boinne. 

There were three passengers on the coach 
besides myself on that memorable day — a 
serious looking Dublin gentleman in knicker- 
bockers, accompanied by two elderly but 
active ladies intent on seeing everything. The 
courier was a stolid red faced individual, who 
took frequent naps and who possessed a con- 
siderable store of misinformation. This he 
dispensed rather sparingly in brief responses 
to our more or less intelligent questions. Ire- 
land is not a land of sight-seeing automobiles 
and megaphone lecturers, else we might have 
learned more things that were not so. We 
alighted first near the Obelisk which commem- 
orates the valor of General Schomberg at the 
famous Battle of the Boyne. It stands on the 
north bank of the river and not far from the 
scene of the General's death. To young Ire- 
laud the Battle of the Boyne is as familiar as 



130 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

is Gettysburg to young America. It was 
fought in 1690 and settled the fate of James 
II. James himself was present during the bat- 
tle as was also his opponent William of 
Orange. As I stood upon the little bridge 
facing down stream in the direction of Drog- 
heda, I tried to fancy the events of that awful 
day. Upon my right was the leafy crest of 
Donore where James and his army awaited 
the combat. Before me was the stream whose 
shallows were forded and whose waters were 
crimsoned during the struggle. On my left 
was Tullyallen Hill where William was en- 
camped, and the glen through which the ex- 
citing charge was made. O'er such scenes do 
artists dream. On both sides emerald hills, 
the river a silver ribbon between. In that vale 
of beauty, and in the golden light of a glorious 
July day, was fought the Battle of the Boyne. 
The hills smoked and flamed in the fury of 
conflict, the earth trembled beneath the roar 
of artillery and the rush of cavalry; the river 
swished and boiled beneath the splashing feet 
of the fighters, and the cheers of the valiant 
and the groans of the fallen rent the air. With 
William were disciplined forces — French, 
Dutch, Irish, English. Calimotte the com- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 131 

mander of the Huguenots fell. Schomberg, an 
aged white-haired veteran, in a gallant dash 
went down beneath sabre and bullet. Terrible 
terrible are the incidents of war, yet glorious 
its reward. James, outnumbered, and never 
renowned for courageous leadership, suddenly 
departed for Dublin greatly to the disgust of 
his Irish officers. The Prince of Orange was 
the hero and victor of the day, and a Protestant 
Dutchman retained the throne of England 
against his Catholic adversary. At the scene 
of the famous battle all is now serene and 
lovely, charming to eye, restful to mind, grate- 
ful to soul, and the wonder and regret is that 
it was once desecrated by the foul fiends of 
carnage and strife. 

Not to enter over much into detail, the most 
distinct and pleasurable impressions of that 
Boyne Valley ride were made by the pictures- 
que ruins of Monasterboice and Mellifont 
Abbey, the tumuli of Dowth and Newgrange, 
the boyhood home of John Boyle O'Reilly, the 
thick foliage and arborial paths in the grounds 
of Mr. B. R. I. Balfour, through which we were 
privileged to pass and where we met a plain 
looking little woman declared by our knowing 
guide to be Lady Balfour, and by the distant 



132 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

profiles of the historic hills of Slane and Tara. 
At Monasterboice I climbed the steps in the 
old Round Tower, which is about 110 feet 
high and broken at the top. It has stood there 
for a thousand years and more, and its hoary 
walls will stand for a thousand years to come. 
Then there was time for a stroll in the old ceme- 
tery where are three famous old Celtic crosses, 
one of which was broken by Cromwell, per- 
haps. The other two are the best examples in 
Ireland. They are 27 and 15 feet high re- 
spectively. One is called the High Cross, the 
other Muiredach's Cross. The guide in a 
moment of sweet confidence informed us that 
these crosses were six thousand years old. An 
astounding bit of archaeology which found im- 
mediate entry in the note book of one of the 
afore mentioned elderly ladies. The crosses 
were handsomely carved with Biblical and 
mythological scenes, now so worn as to be 
hardly decipherable. The Crucifixion, the 
Last Judgment, the Adoration of the Wise Men, 
Cain and Abel, Adam and Eve are among the 
familiar portrayals. Many generations have 
come and gone since the days of the munificent 
Muiredach. The storms of ten centuries have 
swirled around his cross, yet green grows the 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 133 

grass around its base, birds circle and sing 
above it, and before it men may learn some- 
thing of the art and faith of the Irishman of 
earlier days, and behold how he loved his 
Lord, his land and his soul. 

Mellifont Abbey is also a sweet morsel to the 
antiquarian. It was the first Cistercian Mon- 
astery established in Ireland, and was for sev- 
eral centuries one of the largest, richest and 
most important religious centres in the coun- 
try. It was beautifully situated on the bank 
of the River Mattock, and was especially fav- 
ored of the English kings before the monas- 
teries were dissolved. I was especially at- 
tracted to the old tower known as the gate 
house, with its massive walls and three arches 
rising one above the other. It guards the 
approach to the other ruins as though de- 
termined to maintain its dignity though robbed 
of the honors and emoluments of office. 
Just beyond are the meagre remains of the 
church and abbey buildings. In the Chapter 
House are collected sections of carved stone 
work and pieces of tile excavated from the 
ruins. A portion of the old tile floor has been 
pieced together so that a fairly good idea of its 
pattern may be obtained. This Chapter House 



134 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

must have been an exquisite building when 
new, with its grouped columns, carved capitals, 
graceful arches, splendid tracery, rich windows 
and groined roof. The octagonal Baptistry is 
sufficiently preserved to give just a faint sug- 
gestion of the original. Mellifont, still true to 
its suggestive name, is a fountain of sweet sur- 
misings as to the joys and triumphs of those 
who laid its foundations, built and beautified 
its walls, taught, studied, preached and wor- 
shipped in its sacred halls, sent forth streams 
of comfort and evangelism into many lands, 
and now, walking not amid sad ruins but in the 
Eternal City of God, look upon everlasting 
temples and with the serene steppings of the 
glorified march ever upward upon streets of 
gold. Mellifont lies low in the dust but still 
rings with the music of the unconquerable. 

Close by the ruins I found a cleanly cottage 
wherein it became my privilege to be served 
with luncheon. There were fried eggs with 
hearts of gold, marmalade, bread, butter and 
tea. It was a feast for kings. Tea tastes bet- 
ter in Ireland, I imagine, than anywhere else 
in the world. A pot of tea, a loaf of bread and 
a dish of marmalade — more than once 
or twice did I sit down to a table 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 135 

thus provided and found a satisfaction 
often missed at an eight course dinner. 
And when the loaf is accompanied by 
two or three other loaves, each of a different 
kind, and when the knife is sharp and the con- 
sumer cuts his own slice, and when the marma- 
lade is abundant or gives place to strawberry 
jam, and the teapot holds three or four cups 
of Lipton's best, and a man has a traveler's 
appetite and an honest digestion, why then, I 
say, who cares to think of filet of sole or of 
capon, of flavored ices, or of choice cheeses long 
of name and strong of flavor? The little meal 
at Mellifont was served by a kindly woman 
assisted by a young girl as modest in manner 
as she was pretty of face. The good woman 
of the house engaged freely in conversation 
and afterwards accompanied me about among 
the ruins of the abbey, taking me into the 
Chapter House and explaining point after 
point as we passed along. Before we parted 
the conversation reverted to herself, and she 
told me of some of the hardships of her life 
and of the bereavements she had suffered and of 
the struggle, the bitter, long struggle against 
poverty. It was no suppliant's plea for alms, 
but an honest tale of honest trouble. There is 



136 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

a fraternity of sorrow and this poor woman 
knew its password and wore its badge. Ah, 
but she was hopeful too, and responded to the 
little word of sympathy, and while we talked 
not of creeds, our theologies agreed in the 
certitude of God's infinite love, and in the 
grasp of the glory bye and bye to be revealed. 
It is one of the tender memories of my Irish 
journey, that troubled soul with tear dimmed 
eyes confiding her woes to a stranger. We 
bade each other farewell over there among the 
crumbled stones of old Mellifont, with mutual 
assurances of a faith that looks far beyond all 
earthly care to that bright home where dwells 
the everlasting Father of us all. 

The thought of actually invading the sepul- 
chres of those doughty kings of Tara who 
ruled in Ireland long before the advent of St. 
Patrick had provoked anticipations of the unu- 
sual and the uncanny. These anticipations 
were fully realized at the tumulus of Dowth, 
and a little later at that of Newgrange. The 
tombs belong evidently to a very ancient and 
extensive royal cemetery as a score of them 
have been discovered and explored. We were 
enjoying the charms of the rich landscape 
when the coach came to an unexpected stop. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 137 

We alighted and climbed over a stile into the 
field, an ordinary pasture lot apparently, bulg- 
ing into a conical hill. Here we were met by a 
young girl who gave us each a candle and 
conducted us along by the edge of the field to 
an opening in the ground, walled with stone 
and provided with an iron ladder. It was like 
going down into an old well. Not being accus- 
tomed to old wells and tombs, and having no 
special fondness for dampness and darkness, I 
cannot honestly say that I enjoyed the sensa- 
tion with any large degree of enjoyment, no 
more than one can be expected to find actual 
pleasure in the Catacombs or in those horrible 
burial vaults beneath the Church of the Capu- 
chins at Rome, though impelled by curiosity 
and interest to visit them. We edged our way 
along a narrow passage formed by immense 
stones, great boulders they are, long and 
narrow and set on end, and supporting the 
rough fiat stones forming the roof of the 
passage. Thence we came to an almost circular 
chamber about nine feet in diameter, and 
eleven feet high, and having recesses on three 
sides. The stones forming the sides and roof 
of this chamber are singularly marked with 
lines, angles, spirals and circles, the meaning of 



138 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

which is not now known. There are other 
passages and cells in that unromantic mound 
whose history if known would reveal many a 
romance. The dim candle light flings dis- 
torted shadows about and the blackness of 
niche and recess makes more spectral the illu- 
mined rock pillars. Emerging from the gloom 
I concluded that Heaven is sunshine and ozone. 
Larger and yet more interesting is the 
tumulus of Newgrange. In this case the 
entrance is made directly into the side of the 
hill and through a long, narrow and wet 
passageway that makes the performance im- 
possible to any but the young, the slim, and the 
daring. My companions remained outside. A 
slip of a girl, whose duty it is evidently to 
guard the entrance and furnish candles, acted 
as my guide, and we squeezed in between the 
damp columns and along the slimy earth to 
the vaulted central chamber. The plan is 
similar but the formation more regular and 
the inscriptions more plentiful than at Dowth. 
The roof is about twenty feet high, and in each 
of the recesses is a hollowed sacrificial stone. 
Again the weird shadows and the silence. 
Again the mysterious markings, the rugged, 
aged rocks holding back the tremendous weight 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 139 

above them. 0, the terror, and the joy of 
their strength ! The world outside seemed so 
far far away; and the ancient times so very, 
very near and real; and centuries so short, the 
pomp and pride of kings so empty, their 
thrones so transitory, the big boasting 
of mortals so ludicrous, the tomb so 
inevitable ; the destinies of races, nations, 
families and men so inscrutable, earth so cruel 
and so kind, history so full of gloom and 
glory — such a rushing and tumbling of 
thoughts at Newgrange ! It is a strangely 
fascinating spot. An ordinary wooded hill 
as seen from the road, yet it held in its embrace 
that most precious yet most valueless of 
things — the dust of princes; also many objects 
of artistic and monetary worth to gratify the 
vanity of the reigning family, and later to ex- 
cite the savage cupidity of the ravaging Danes. 
So the tomb was honored, then rifled, then for- 
gotten, then discovered, and is today one of 
the most remarkable antiquities in the world. 
To have penetrated that mass of rock, to have 
stood for a few minutes in that dark sepul- 
chral chamber is to have formed an indissol- 
uble comradeship with antiquity. 



XX. DOING DUBLIN. 

Ireland may be roughly pictured as an open 
fan with Dublin as its pivot. That the pivot 
points toward England is a fact of tremendous 
significance. Centuries ago a long arm was 
stretched across the Irish Sea and an iron hand 
gripped the fan with fingers that know not 
how to relax. However benevolent or malevo- 
lent the purpose may have been, the results 
constitute a series of incidents unparalleled 
for human interest and dramatic surprises in 
all the world's history. If it be true that the 
spirits of mortals linger in the earth's atmos- 
phere for millions of years after death, con- 
scious always of the cumulative influence of 
their deeds when in the flesh, then of all 
spirits most miserable must be that of Dermot 
M'Murrogh. Crafty, perfidious, evil, traitor- 
ous, resentful, selfish, quarrelsome, ambitious, 
bitter, yet bold and brainy withal was M'Mur- 
rogh, the awful Irishman who led that crowd of 
Anglo-Norman knights and freebooters to the 
invasion of his own country to avenge his 
wrongs by wronging the twenty generations 
of Irishmen that have lived since his day. The 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 141 

gallant rascal, so the story goes, once persuaded 
the beautiful Devorgilla to elope with him, the 
crime being accentuated by the fact that 
Devorgilla was the wife of O'Ruarc, a rival 
prince. Well, it is a long story with the com- 
plications of a Corellian romance, encompass- 
ing the return of the beautiful one and her 
consecration to a life of self-abnegation and 
wonderful works of charity and philanthropy, 
and dealing with the defeat of M'Murrogh 
after a long struggle, and explaining why he 
left Ireland with terrible vengeance in his soul 
and returned, to the great discomfiture of his 
enemies and the ultimate ruin of his country. 
Compared to him, Benedict Arnold and Aaron 
Burr were mere tyros in the arts of treachery. 

It was in the year 1168 and at the time of 
year when the arbutus and the rhododendrdn 
were about to blaze forth in their annual res- 
urrection glory, that the first detachment of 
M'Murrogh 's foreign accomplices made a land- 
ing on the Wexford coast. Others followed, 
and shortly we read of Dermot M'Murrogh 
claiming not only his former kingship of 
Leinster but the sovereignty of all Ireland. 
Modest man! But soon came the valiant 
Maurice Fitzgerald and the adventurous Fitz- 



142 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Stephen and Stronglow. Then ensued the fall 
of Waterford, the march on Dublin, the ruth- 
less slaughter of inhabitants, and Dublin was in 
the hands of the descendants of William the 
Conqueror. That was in 1171. The king of 
England crossed the channel in October of the 
same year, with his bewildering armada of four 
hundred ships, his illustrious knights and 
trained soldiers, and the glittering pomp of a 
rich and powerful monarch. Henry estab- 
lished his court and palace at Dublin. Dublin 
became the centre and stronghold of the 
English influence in Ireland, and Dublin, 
though not the largest nor the most beautiful, 
is today the most interesting and impressive 
city of the country. These outstanding facts 
of history seem to be luminous with a new 
significance as one walks the streets of the 
great metropolis, and Dublin is intelligible only 
when studied in their light. The Shakespeare 
biography has been humorously characterized 
as an "Eiffel Tower of artificiality" made up of 
so many guesses and perhapses and may-have- 
beens. Dublin, on the contrary, has a history 
as solid as the pyramids and it may be read in 
its stones, castles, bridges, monuments, mu- 
seums, cathedrals, and churches. It is a gray 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 143 

old town, yet with its parks and many places of 
amusement is the gayest of all Irish cities. It 
has its qnota of criminals, of course, and the 
observer of night scenes upon the street will 
notice with disgust evidences of immorality to 
be witnessed in no other community in Ireland. 
Dublin is divided into two parts by the River 
Liffey. Some noble bridges span the river. 
The heart of the city is in the vicinity of the 
famous O'Connell Bridge. The structure is 
itself an object of admiration, seeming to be a 
continuation of Sackville Street, 154 feet 
wide, and brilliantly lighted with three rows 
of lamps. It offers an incomparable view of 
the river walls and docks, and within sight of 
it are some of the most renowned avenues and 
buildings of the city. No matter where I went 
I naturally and inevitably returned to the 
O'Connell Bridge, and from it I could go di- 
rectly to any desired point. It is the kind of a 
place that a stranger soon learns to love, for 
verily an unfamiliar city is a mighty mystery, 
a labyrinth with no golden cord to help 
one through the maze, a jigsaw puzzle 
not quickly put together. The Arc de 
Triomphe of Paris, Westminister of Lon- 
don, St. Mark's of Venice at once offer 



144 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

proprietary rights to the stranger within the 
city gates, and the reciprocal sense of owner- 
ship is his temporary salvation. Of such a 
kind is the quick affection for O'Connell's 
Bridge, Dublin. 

Northward, or nearly so, runs the broadest 
and best thoroughfare of the city, Sackville 
Street, with Nelson's Monument and the Post 
Office but three squares distant. From that 
monument the tramway routes radiate to all 
parts of the city, and Dublin is the best "tram- 
wayed" city in the world. In the opposite di- 
rection lies Westmoreland Street with the 
Bank of Ireland and Trinity College within 
sight. Westward from College Green runs 
Dame Street, leading to the Castle and the 
City Hall; while continuing southward is 
Grafton Street, where it is claimed that more 
business is done to the square inch than in any 
street in the Kingdom, and through which is 
reached St. Stephen's Green, which in turn is 
but a square distant from the National Mu- 
seum and the National Library. 

The places thus quickly mentioned are of 
sufficient importance and interest to occupy 
many days of sight-seeing and would furnish 
many memorable impressions were Dublin con- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 145 

fined to these limits. My own rapid investiga- 
tions were carried on by the constant use of 
tramways, with a day's assistance of the coach 
and courier from the ubiquitous Cook's. It 
was on that particular day that I visited St. 
Patrick's, an ancient and honorable institu- 
tion sharing cathedral honors with the more 
ancient Christ church. St. Patrick's is the 
better known, however, because it once had a 
brilliant lunatic for its Dean. Jonathan Swift 
was not very long on piety, nor was he short 
on satire and he shot his shafts at such 
shining marks that he achieved a daz- 
zling reputation among the liter ateurs and 
lampooners of his country. Fame has 
marked him as one of the biggest and brain- 
iest of Irishmen with the twists and kinks of 
a crazy man. He lies buried beneath the floor 
of the cathedral by the side of the saintly 
"Stella," whom he so highly exalted and yet 
so cruelly wronged. The little bit of brass 
that marks their resting place excites more 
general interest than anything else in the 
cathedral. Yet St. Patrick's is Ireland's 
Westminster. It has monuments and memo- 
rials galore, celebrating the virtuous and the 
valorous. Sir Benjamin Guinness, the brewer, 



146 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

is fixed in bronze and thus durably estab- 
lished occupies a seat of honor just outside, 
between the south door and transept. Enor- 
mous gifts were made to the cathedral by Mr. 
Guinness, while Mr. Roe, the distiller, was the 
chief modern benefactor of Christ church. 
There is a passage of Scripture admonishing 
us to try the spirits. It is well done in Dublin. 
There is now an overwhelming rush of recol- 
lections as I think of that gray old town on 
the Liffey. The Castle has a share of gloomi- 
ness as befits the seat of government for quite 
seven centuries. There is nothing imposing 
in its appearance, but its gates, courts, tow- 
ers, halls and State apartments are suggestive 
of a romantic history, while the administra- 
tive offices, police headquarters and armory 
suggest the mechanics of government. The 
Castle was originally a fortress flanked by four 
towers, one of which is still to be recognized 
in the Record Tower. The chapel, built in 
1814, is a Gothic building of Irish limestone 
rather curiously decorated with busts of the 
Virgin Mary, Brian Boru, St. Patrick, St. 
Peter, Dean Swift, and the heads of the Eng- 
lish kings. Visitors are courteously shown 
about the Castle, and of course no one would 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 147 

think of omitting it from the itinerary. I was 
especially interested in the portraits of the 
Viceroys, a long procession of them with Lord 
Cornwallis at the head of the column. 

Next in this roll of recollections I see a 
noble Round Tower; not an ancient one in 
ruins, but modern, entire, graceful. It stands 
in a circular plot in the Prospect Cemetery at 
Glasnevin, and beneath it are the remains of 
Daniel O'Connell. G-lasnevin is a Dublin 
suburb. Well does that monument speak of 
the illustrious dead beneath. A lofty minded 
man and a well rounded man was he. O'Con- 
nell an American would have graced the Sen- 
ate. O'Connell, a German, might have been 
Chancellor. O'Connell, a Protestant English- 
man, would not have been unequal tj the de- 
mands of the Premiership. But 'Connell was 
a Catholic Irishman loyal to church and to 
country, Member of Parliament, able advocate, 
gifted orator, one of the manliest of men, one 
of the fairest of fighters. "The Uncrowned 
Monarch" they admiringly called him, and 
"Father of his Country," for to his broad 
genius and unquenchable zeal is due the 
emancipation of Catholics in Ireland. To 
all who love liberty for liberty's sake 'Con- 
nell 's grave is Mecca. 



148 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Another Irishman of great fame is buried in 
a similar plot but a short distance away, a 
plot still awaiting its monumental shaft. Feel- 
ings of regret and pity are aroused at that 
grave. Alas for the near successes that have 
culimated in woful failure and shame! It is 
the grave of Charles Stewart Parnell. He had 
his share of anxiety and agony. By dint of 
devotion and ability he rose to prominence and 
supremacy, a leader great in the confidence of 
the people and in the consciousness of the jus- 
tice of his cause. With his endorsement and 
under his presidency the Land League of 
thirty years ago assumed giant proportions. 
His visit to America and his appeal for aid 
brought over three hundred thousand dollars 
to the work. He suffered imprisonment for a 
time and thus won the halo of heroism. 
He was the most capable leader, probably, the 
Irish party in the House of Commons has ever 
had. Then scandal did its dreadful work, and 
Parnell died in defeat and disgrace. Let us 
write it as an axiom, that to be politically 
great, one must be personally good. The tree 
rotten at the core may preserve for a time its 
strength of branch and beauty of leaf but its 
doom is written. How terrible the devasta- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 149 

tions of the white ants of Africa as described 
by Henry Drummond! He tells us that "one 
may never see the insect; but his ravages con- 
front one at every turn." White or black the 
secret sin is a gnawing insect. By it the giant 
is robbed of his giantship. History teems 
with awful examples. Character crumbles, 
reputation shrivels, ambition totters, hope de- 
parts, the sanctuary is profaned. It is easy 
to moralize at Glasnevin! 

Phoenix Park contains 1,752 acres. For this 
valuable information we may credit the guide 
books. One does not count the acres on his 
first visit, but he will be sufficiently impressed 
with the size of the Park if he takes the two 
mile ride from Castleknock Gate to the main 
entrance as it was my privilege to do. The 
Zoological Gardens are extensive and contain 
a splendid collection. The Wellington obelisk, 
205 feet high, a monument in honor of the 
great Duke, reminded me that Wellington was 
Dublin born. The beautifully situated residence 
of the Lord Lieutenant reminded me of the 
fact that the honorable gentleman fortunate 
enough to occupy that position is a much bet- 
ter paid officer than the President of the 
United States. He receives a hundred thou- 



150 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

sand dollars per annum, plus — I do not know 
just how large that plus may be but from 
what I have heard of houses, servants, equip- 
ages, entertainments, etc., the plus must be as 
much as the entire amount allowed to our 
President as remuneration for his distinguished 
services. Lord and Lady Aberdeen are both 
estimable persons, however, and as it was their 
prerogative to occupy the Viceregal Lodge at 
the time of my visit I was not disposed to envy 
them their good fortune. Nearly opposite the 
Lodge, my attention was called to an indenta- 
tion in the roadway. It was shaped like the 
letter X and was apparently dug out with a 
blunt instrument or stick. It would have ex- 
cited no comment whatsoever had it not been 
designated as the spot where a shocking 
tragedy was enacted on the sixth day of May 
1882. On that day Lord Frederick Cavendish 
arrived in Dublin to begin his labors as the 
Chief Secretary of Ireland. He was walking 
with Under Secretary Burke when they were 
suddenly attacked and cruelly murdered. It 
was a fiendish crime, repudiated by Parnell 
and the Irish party in whose interests it was 
ostensibly committed. After these twenty- 
seven years it would seem as though that X 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 151 

might be allowed to disappear. Its preserva- 
tion will probably pass into the long list of 
peculiar traditions tenaciously maintained in 
the land of the shamrock. The ready imagina- 
tion of the Celt may yet embellish the plain 
tale with weird and fantastic incidents, and 
the grandmother of the twenty-fifth century 
may recite to the gaping children the story of 
the two terrible giants, who seeking to en- 
slave the country were miraculously cleft by a 
flaming sword let down from Heaven by an 
avenging angel; all of which may be clearly 
proven by the ineffaceable X in Phoenix Park. 
Perhaps it would be more consonant with the 
characteristics of Irish superstition to describe 
the Devil reaching up through the earth and 
dragging the offenders down to Hell. The 
Devil is such a familiar personage in Irish folk 
lore. "With this version the X would become 
the scar resulting from the descent of Satan 
and his victims to the nether regions. Who 
could gainsay such evidence? 

Trinity College, Dublin, was founded in 
1591. Necessarily it has a history dignified 
and honorable after the fashion of academic 
institutions. I am not now concerned to recount 
the interesting features of that history, neither 



152 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

to glow over the alluring list of famous alumni, 
nor yet to describe the grounds and buildings. 
Most vividly do I recall the visit to the Library 
of the college, and particularly two objects 
therein contained. Not that they are the most 
important of all the rare and wonderful things 
to be seen within the classic shades, but 
simply that they happened especially to arouse 
my curiosity. Let it be understood that Trin- 
ity College Library is great among the libraries 
of the world, possessing a magnificent collec- 
tion of books and manuscripts — nearly 300,000 
of the one and over 2000 of the other. It is 
over 300 years old. It has valuable Egyptian, 
Greek and Latin manuscripts. The objects to 
which I refer are the Book of Kells and the 
harp of Brian Boru. There is a question 
concerning the Boruan, (or should I say 
Brianian?) ownership of that harp, never- 
theless it looks as though it might have been 
the property of the great king. That is as 
near authentication as some things ever get. 
It is not the kind of a harp we are accustomed 
to see — the huge golden instrument as large as 
the performer. If Brian ever played it he 
probably held it in his lap, and the music, 
however sweet, was of a very primitive order. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 153 

It represents concretely and pathetically the 
national music of a former dispensation, a 
melody that brought courage to the heart of 
the soldier, comfort to the court of the king. 
That was before the days of Handel, Beetho- 
ven, Bach, Mozart, and Wagner, but the sweet 
and simple strains of the harp strings meant 
more to the Ireland of the olden time than 
operas, oratorios, fugues and concertos mean to 
most of us. The quaint little instrument with 
richly carved and ornamented frame expressed 
what words could not express of the heart's 
hope, affection, pride; expressed in elegant 
phrases the genius of the race. Emblazoned 
on the flag of Erin it enkindles today the 
holiest passion of patriotism — a beautiful 
symbol of a noble memory. So the interest in 
Brian Boru's harp was largely sentimental. 
But as for the Book of Kells, it requires no 
pluming of the imagination, nor yet an artist's 
eye to value its beauty. There it is, "the most 
beautiful book in the world," a manuscript of 
the Four Gospels, dating from the eighth 
century. It is the work of scholars and artists 
surely, for its lettering and illuminations are 
such as to challenge comparison with any 
similar production in existence. There are 



154 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

several towns called Kells in Ireland, but the 
Kells in County Meath, once the home of St. 
Columba, is assured of immortal fame by this 
exquisite memorial of Christian art already 
more than a thousand years old. Kells was 
widely celebrated at one time as an ecclesias- 
tical and literary center, and this specimen of 
its advancement is an object of universal 
interest. 

Dublin's intellectuality is not all confined 
to her great and honored University. In a few 
minutes after leaving the college entrance, I 
stood on Kildare Street looking through an- 
other entrance at a splendid group of buildings 
occupying three sides of a quadrangle. An 
imposing monument in honor of Queen Vic- 
toria and surmounted by her statue marks the 
center of the space. On my left was the 
National Library and on my right was the 
National Museum of Science and Art. These 
two buildings are less than twenty years old, 
while Leinster Hall, at the further side of the 
quadrangle, was built in 1745. It is now used 
by the Koyal Dublin Society. Further back, 
one on each side of Leinster Lawn, are the 
Museum of Natural History and the National 
Gallery of Ireland. Here are gathered inval- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 155 

liable collections of books, antiquities, paint- 
ings, portraits, specimens, curios, etc., hardly 
excelled, if equalled, in any other city in 
Europe. In the National Museum I found 
myself tarrying before the case containing the 
shrine of St. Patrick's tooth. Strange that 
any man's tooth should be deemed worthy of 
enshrinement. This is the only one on record, 
probably. Its peculiar title to lasting honors 
arises from the fact that it was knocked from 
the mouth of the patron saint when he hap- 
pened to fall, one unpropitious day, on the 
steps of his church at Armagh. His saintliness 
must have been of the toothsome variety, for 
the dislodged ivory was tenderly preserved 
and in later years deposited in an elaborately 
wrought metal box, now grown dull and dis- 
figured, but retaining evidences abundant of 
its original beauty of design and costliness of 
material. Still older is the Shrine of St. 
Patrick's Bell, a revered example of Celtic 
metal work and ornamentation made for the 
bell once used by St. Patrick, and preserved 
for centuries at Armagh. The bell is also on 
exhibition, the oldest Christian curio of them 
all. Then there is the Cross of Cong, made of 
oak, copper, gold and jewels, and containing, 



156 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

it is said, a portion of the Cross of Calvary. Of 
such interesting and suggestive character are 
the relics gathered at the Museum, and their 
name is legion. 

The forty acre Guiness brewery is all the 
more conspicuous in Dublin because Dublin 
is not conspicuously an industrial city. It is 
without question the greatest concern of its 
kind in the world, perfect in equipment, vast 
in extent, frictionless in system, multitudinous 
in departments, representing millions in invest- 
ment, generous in dividends. In general man- 
agement, in the high character of its owners, 
in the philanthropies aided by its profits, in 
the dignity of its age and the quality of its 
product, it represents brewing at its best. 
Shortly after leaving the brewery I passed a 
dingy saloon at No. 12 Aungier Street. It 
occupied the ground floor of a three story 
brick building, set into the wall of which was 
a bust of Erin's sweetest singer, Thomas 
Moore. It was his birthplace, now befouled 
by the destroyer of genius. That night I saw 
drunken women upon the street, and men 
whose depleted attire and bloated faces 
marked the track of the demon. Out of the 
proceeds of the brewery and distillery, art 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 157 

galleries are enriched, science is succored, 
cathedrals are built, yet the bones of its vic- 
tims are piling higher in the abyss, and the 
blackness of despair engulfs the innocent and 
the helpless. Burke, Balfe, Sheridan and many 
others of world-wide reputation could be 
added to the list of those who have helped to 
make Dublin famous as the birthplace of 
genius. Yet the brewery is no friend to brains. 
To the Hill of Howth, northern sentinel of 
the Dublin Bay, I would offer the tribute of 
grateful memory. On a fair midsummer after- 
noon I boarded a tram at the Nelson Pillar and 
committed myself to its urban and suburban 
windings for a nine mile ride to the terminus. 
The tracks run close to the edge of the Bay 
for almost the whole distance, affording a 
most enjoyable view of the great waterway 
approach to the capital with the protecting 
walls and lights of the harbor. The tide was 
out, and the hard clay of the bottom thus left 
bare a few hours, was being utilized as a bicycle 
track by spry young people returning from 
their labors in the city. It required but the 
passing of a few wheels over the bed of clay 
to mark out an ideal course, smooth, hard and 
dry, and there were many ready to take advan- 



158 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

tage of it. Having passed along Talbot Street 
and North Strand and across Annesley Bridge, 
and following the curve of the shore line, the 
car made good progress toward Howth, passing 
many pretty suburban homes and several 
towns, the name of one of which is writ large 
in the annals of Ireland. Clontarf! There is 
energy in that word. It is thunderous with 
the crashing of the battle axe and spear. You 
who have forgotten the story of the Battle of 
Clontarf will find excitement in the rereading 
of the important chronicle. ' ' The glorious day 
of Clontarf" they call it, these writers of 
things stranger than fiction. If the shedding 
of blood and the conquest of enemies at high 
cost can make glorious the day of enactment, 
then that Good Friday of the year 1014 should 
be chiseled high up on the granite of fame. 
Brian Boru, King of all Ireland, white and 
long of hair and beard, scarred with many 
scars, sword in one hand, crucifix in other, 
enthused his 20,000 followers with his passion- 
ate appeal for "Faith and Fatherland." 
Against the pagan Danes they fought with a 
frenzy of religious and patriotic zeal. And on 
that day ended the Danish power in Ireland. 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 159 

Every chieftain remembered, no doubt, the call 
cf their venerable leader : — 

"Men of Erin! Men of Erin! grasp the 

battle-axe and spear, 
Chase these Northern wolves before you like 

a herd of frightened deer! 
Burst their ranks, like bolts from heaven! 

Down on the heathen crew, 
For the glory of the Crucified, and Erin's 
glory too." 

I tried to fancy the long line of Norse 
galleys reaching almost to Howth from the 
mouth of the Liffey, commanded by Admiral 
Brodar. The fleet had entered the Bay on 
Palm Sunday. When the line of battle was 
formed its centre was at Clontarf. I tried to 
picture in my mind the embattled host holding 
the shore from Dublin to Dollymount. Men 
they must have been of warlike mein, thick 
bearded, flaxen haired, sinewy frames, lumpy 
muscles, with the spirit of conquest in their 
hearts, — mail-clad Norwegians, Baltic auxil- 
iaries, British allies. Over against them, 
northward, were the divisions of the Irish army 
representing many counties and corners of the 
country, all panting for the conflict. It began 
early in the day and was a hand-to-hand 



160 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

combat wherein a soldier rushed at his enemy 
and glared his hatred full to his face as he 
swung the axe or drave the spear. I tried to 
fancy it all, I say, but could not. It seemed 
so utterly incomprehensible, so absolutely im- 
possible, so severely incongruous. All that I 
could see evidenced peace, industry, enter- 
prise, enjoyment, life, — a tranquil bay rimmed 
with quiet beauty, zephyr-stroked and sun- 
kissed. 

Arrived at Howth, I walked out upon the 
great pier 2700 feet long, having a lighthouse 
at the end, the keeper of which allowed me to 
scan the sea with his powerful glass. About a 
mile toward the north rose the rocky island 
known as " Ireland's Eye," whereon could be 
descried the ruins of an ancient chapel. In 
the opposite direction the hill rose high behind 
the town, the historic old Hill of Howth, cul- 
minating in Slieve Martin, 560 feet above the 
sea. There are many holy hills outside of 
Palestine. In all countries and in every life's 
experience there are Zions and Carmels and 
Tabors and Hermons. To me Howth became 
the Mount of Transfiguration, whereon I wit- 
nessed a vision, the glory of which shines even 
upon the page as I write. Tufted with fern 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 161 

and fir and heather, haloed by the soft twi- 
light and caressed by the gentlest of breezes, 
the stern old promontory exuding the memo- 
ries of millenniums was verily an inspired 
prophet, making revelation of things that 
were, of things that are, and are yet to be. 
Before me lay the smooth, curving sea, like a 
crystal bridge arching toward the happy island 
yonder. To the left stretched the long, irregu- 
lar line of the Irish coast, with Ireland's Eye 
blinking in the deepening shadows, and the 
amethystine sea horizoned by the turquoise 
sky in the distance. Turning toward the right 
I caught the sweep of the Dublin Bay with 
the Wicklow Mountains rolling back south- 
ward to meet the pink tinted clouds gathering 
for their vesper devotions. A long black 
smoke streak marked the course of a steamer 
just entering the Bay, and the harbor lights 
were beginning to appear for their night 
watches. The sun had some time since dropped 
behind the fringing hills, but was sending back 
such brilliant beams of light that the hovering 
clouds looked like angel bands in festal robes. 
Never, even in the most gorgeous Oriental 
silks, have such colors been woven into 
textures made by hands. Edges of purest gold 



162 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

were there, framing clouds of brown, gray, 
purple and blue, all suffused with the most 
delicate and elusive pink, — a transparent veil 
of glory thrown over glory's face. I expected 
that in less than forty hours I would be sailing 
in the direction of that declining sun, toward 
the happy land which would catch its healing 
light for hours after the valleys of old Ireland 
were hidden in the night. I was all the more 
impressionable, no doubt, on account of that 
expectation. The peace of God was upon the 
summit, and everywhere, and old Erin seemed 
afloat upon a sea of pearl lifted free from the 
billows of adversity to return to the depths no 
more forever. 



XXI. COMPLETING THE CIBCLE. 

On the following day my route lay through 
County Wieklow, the "Garden of Ireland,' ' 
past the famous seaside resorts, Bray and 
Greystones, Wieklow and its fine harbor, and 
on along the Avonmore River, through the 
Vale of Ovoca where meet the waters famed in 
the verses of Moore : — 

"There is not in this wide world a valley so 

sweet 
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters 

meet; 
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must 

depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from 

my heart.' ' 

— which same 'twould be a sin to omit from 
any sensible book on Ireland. 

No one would deny the beauty of the Meet- 
ing Place of the Waters, and there are two 
such places of either one of which Moore may 
have written, — one where the Avonmore joins 
the Avonberg and the other at Wooden Bridge 
where the Aughrim and the Gold Mines meet 
the Ovoca. I caught a glimpse of the rippling 



164 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

waters as they join company at Wooden 
Bridge. It is a rich and lovely scene but not 
more so, I think, than a thousand places un- 
sung. The poet is a wand waver. His lovers 
will look through the amber colored glasses of 
their affection and behold in the scene exalted 
by their singer a celestial charm otherwise un- 
observed. Yet I would that such beatific 
visions were more rather than less numerous, 
and that every prospect might find its poet. 

Turning for the moment from the considera- 
tion of nature's garden array, I recall that the 
man who shared my compartment and who 
pointed out the reputed meeting place of the 
waters, declared himself to be an advocate of 
the Sinn Fein movement, in which subject I at 
once became interested and started the inter- 
rogative machinery at full pressure. He was a 
well dressed man of perhaps forty-five years 
of age, coal black hair and moustache, ex- 
pressive eyes and pleasing voice. He was 
taking his daughters, two beautiful little girls 
hardly in their teens, for a visit to grandma's 
at Wexford. Dear grandma, I opine, was joy- 
ously anticipating their arrival, for better be- 
haved little ladies never went on a vacation. 
To understand the spirit and scope of various 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 165 

present day parties and movements in Ireland 
is not the simplest task in the world, but it is 
essential to anything that approaches a fair 
interpretation of Irish thought and aspiration. 
How many of us in America, for instance, 
could on the moment make clear the distinc- 
tion between the policies of the Sinn Fein and 
those of the Parliamentarians and the Union- 
ists, or state the principles of the Gaelic 
League? Mr. Redmond, Mr. O'Connor, and all 
the other Irish M. P.'s are technically traitors 
according to the doctrines of the Sinn Feiners. 
By the same token every man in the country 
who voted to send them to Parliament must be 
traitors. For why? There is no lawful Union. 
Parliament legislates for Ireland only by illegal 
usurpation and is not to be recognized there- 
fore by any true citizen of the sovereign State 
of Ireland. This is the way the Constitution 
begins : — 

"The object of the National Council is the 
re-establishment of the Independence of Ire- 
land. The aim of the Sinn Fein Policy is to 
unite Ireland on this broad National plat- 
form — First, That we are a distinct nation; 
Second, That we will not make any voluntary 
agreement with Great Britain, until Great 



166 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

Britain keeps her own compact which she made 
by the Eenunciation Act of 1783, which en- 
acted 'that the right claimed by the people of 
Ireland to be bound only by laws enacted by 
his Majesty and the Parliament of that King- 
dom is hereby declared to be established, and 
ascertained forever, and shall at no time here- 
after be questioned or questionable.' Third, 
That we are determined to make use of any 
powers we have, or may have at any time in 
the future to work for our own advancement 
and for the creation of a prosperous virile and 
independent nation." 

"That the people of Ireland are a free 
people and that no law made without their 
authority or consent is or ever can be binding 
on their conscience." 

Among other things the Sinn Fein Constitu- 
tion provides for the protection of Irish indus- 
tries and commerce, an Irish Consular Service, 
an Irish Mercantile Marine, a National Bank, 
a National Stock Exchange, a National Civil 
Service. Branches of the organization are es- 
tablished in England, Scotland and America, 
as well as in twenty-five of the thirty-two 
counties of Ireland. 

The work of the Gaelic League is educa- 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 167 

tional and industrial rather than political. It 
is non-sectarian also, and all the more to be 
praised on that account. It stands first for the 
revival and preservation of the Irish language. 
I doubt not, however, that in the wider sweep 
of its growing energies it will touch the circle 
of the Irish problem at many points. Over 900 
branches are now affiliated with the Executive 
Council, the required minimum membership of 
a branch being fifteen. The League is but 
sixteen years old. Dr. Douglas Hyde is its 
honored president. 

The longer I talked with my quasi in- 
structor the more I realized that the causes of 
Ireland's unrest are many, acting and reacting 
upon each other, — a tangle of causes not to be 
stated in a sentence and not to be understood 
in a day. Mad, jerking does not unsnarl a 
tangle. Slowly the fingers of wisdom, justice, 
statesmanship and patriotism are loosening the 
knots, and Ireland is being prepared for a visi- 
tation of prosperity such as may atone in part 
for past adversities. 

A few hours at Waterford afforded oppor- 
tunity for some hasty observations of the 
streets, buildings and people of that famous 
old town. Reginald, the Dane, built a tower 



168 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

in 1003, which still stands on the Mall, an 
object of pride to the city and of profound 
interest to the visitor. When first an English 
king essayed to set the royal foot upon Irish 
soil, he sailed up the Kiver Suir for some 
fifteen miles from the harbor's mouth, and 
stepped ashore at Waterford. To chronicle 
all the tragic events in the history of Water- 
ford from the days of King Henry would 
require a patient pen and many pages. Far 
more gracious is the privilege of calling to 
mind the incidents of an afternoon's leisurely 
stroll in and about the city. 

The railway station is hard by the north 
end of the long wooden bridge leading 
to the main portion of the city on the 
opposite side of the river. The bridge is 
over 800 feet long and was built by 
an American architect more than a hundred 
years ago. It was evidently a good job, 
well done and at a final cost considerably less 
than the estimate. How such a thing could 
ever have happened is probably a puzzle to 
bridge builders the world around. Verily all 
things are possible to an American. The view 
from the bridge held me for some time in 
rapt enjoyment. The slate-gray river swept 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 169 

in a strong current beneath the bridge and on 
towards its confluence with the Barrow. Ships 
there were in plenty to take care of Water- 
ford's large export trade. There was the great 
quay and behind it tier after tier of stone 
houses as the city rose toward the crest of the 
hill. A most inspiring perspective of river and 
mountain lay toward the southwest. Some 
prize cattle were being led across the bridge, 
proud, seemingly, of the honors won at the 
animal fair then in progress. Bulls, cows, 
sheep, pigs and horses, beautifully propor- 
tioned and carefully groomed they were, sure 
prize winners anywhere. Workmen were busy 
repairing the planking. Loiterers gazed idly 
into the river or sat lazily sunning themselves 
upon the wooden benches that line the prome- 
nade. Old men predominated. Down along 
the quay could be seen the rounded walls of 
Reginald's Tower, and out against the back- 
ground of the hill, as in bold bas-relief, stood 
slanting roofs and tapering steeples. Such 
was my first glimpse of Waterford as it left its 
outline upon my memory. 

Later I indulged myself in a long walk out 
over the hill beyond the town, in the course of 
which I made the acquaintance of one of the 



170 AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 

belles of Waterford — a very little belle to be 
sure, but all the more interesting and none the 
less a belle on that account. She was stylishly 
gowned (fashions change) in a pink calico 
dress. She had golden hair, uneducated, and 
the kind of blue eyes the singers sing about. 
She was somewhat crippled and wore neither 
shoes nor stockings. I have said she was 
small. I saw her trudging along ahead of me 
up through the long hillside street, lugging a 
basket of potatoes so heavy that she could 
hardly lift it from the sidewalk. When I over- 
took her I ventured to offer help, which she 
accepted by simply letting go of the basket. I 
picked it up and she limped along by my side, 
evidently grateful for the assistance but too 
bashful to say a word. I supposed it would be 
a matter of a block or so, but it proved to be a 
mile or more, I carrying the "praties" and 
she just "taggin' on." We passed many 
citizens who eyed me askance but offered no 
word of comment. After a while I began to 
wonder if I would have to adopt the child, 
nobody seeming to own her, and calculated on 
the basket as an asset in the account. Dis- 
tances between houses grew wider and wider 
and the street became a road before the little 



AROUND THE EMERALD ISLE. 171 

pink lady indicated our arrival somewhere, 
which she did by grabbing the basket and 
disappearing through a gateway in a white- 
washed wall, over which I could just see the 
upper half of a neat little cottage. I had lost 
both girl and potatoes and was conscious of 
vague regret, for I had begun to enjoy the 
silent companionship of the unfortunate child. 
Many children find life an up hill climb, and 
blessed are ye if ye lighten the load and 
brighten the way for such a one. The little 
girl cripple in the pink slip dress has become 
to me a symbol of earth's trudge and drudge, 
awaiting on every hillside the hand of help. 

At a rather late hour that night I arrived 
again at Queenstown, to sail the next morning 
for the homeland. So the ends of the journey 
came together, and I had completed a loop 
" Around the Emerald Isle." 



FP 16 191U 



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